Sol was off again, striding down the length of the stable doors. ‘We have thirty horses in,’ he said over his shoulder to Rebecca, who was still jogging to keep up, ‘and only five running at present until we get properly set up. The rest are just young stock we’ve picked up in our travels. Racing blood from America, Ireland and Japan. All a bit of a gamble, if you’ll pardon the pun.’
He walked up to a dark bay horse and laid his hand on its face. The horse dropped its head into the pressure of his hand, half closed its eyes and let out a contented sigh. Bec wondered if his hands on her body would prompt the same reaction.
‘This one here is our hope for the Melbourne Cup in a few years. We’ll see how we go, won’t we, Arthur, boy?’
But the warm stillness and slowness of Sol as he stood with the horses didn’t last. Without warning, his aloof, abrupt mood seemed to return. He spun about and was off again, quickly pointing out an enclosed sand roll, a high-fenced round yard for education of horses, the heated indoor horse swimming pool, and the tack room where not a bridle or a lead rope was hung out of place and every bit of metal on the gear threw bright reflections out to the world.
Before she could take it all in, Rebecca was ushered through the door of the staff room.
Around the table sat a collection of fresh-faced girls, an older man and an extremely good-looking young bloke. All of them were downing beers or bottles of brightly coloured lolly-grog drinks.
‘I see you’re hard at it, you lazy lot!’ Sol said in his deep Spanish-draped voice, but the smile in his eyes told Rebecca he spoke in jest. She sensed he was as glad to see them as they were him.
‘Just finished the night feed-up, boss,’ said the young man, who was showing no signs of discretion in the way he eyed Rebecca’s breasts.
‘This is our neighbour from Waters Meeting, Rebecca Lewis.’
‘Saunders,’ Rebecca corrected. It came out of her mouth so suddenly it surprised her. Rebecca Saunders — the name she’d had when she was young. When she was a jillaroo and single. Her days before becoming a farmer’s wife. Before she married Charlie. A name, after today, she wanted again.
‘Rebecca Saunders,’ Sol said, sounding slightly irritated once again. ‘I’m giving her a tour.’ He took a step back and surveyed her. She couldn’t tell if his gaze was cold or mocking.
‘Rebecca, meet some of the staff who’ve come with us in the move from Scone. We couldn’t get rid of them,’ he said, his fond tone returning when he addressed them. ‘This is Daisy Peters, our foreman; Kealy Smith, our stablehand; Bill Hill, our everything; Simply Steph, because no one can say her surname; and —’
‘Don’t introduce her to Joey, boss,’ the older man, Bill, said quickly. ‘He’ll race her off to the sand roll when youse aren’t looking.’ The girls all sniggered.
Sol Stanton cast them an amused look. ‘Yes, well … and this is one of our riders, Joey,’ he finished.
‘Rider’s right,’ muttered the pint-sized Daisy cheekily.
‘One of?’ Joey said. ‘Your best rider.’ He had jet-black curly hair and violet-blue eyes, and he scraped the legs of his chair on the timber floor loudly as he abruptly stood up. He half bowed, reached out and shook Bec’s hand. Then he stooped over to kiss the back of it and, as he did, Bec took in the stubble on his chin and the twinkle in the eyes smiling wickedly up at her. His looks set him up to be more like a pretty-boy actor than a jockey.
At the table, the strong-looking, curvy, short-haired girl in the Blue Heeler Hotel singlet, Steph, gave a mock cough behind her hand. ‘Man whore,’ she hacked. The girls giggled as Steph ‘coughed’ again.
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