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Outsider
Sara Craven
Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
OUTLINED ON THE hillside against the morning sky, horse and rider looked as if they had been carved from stone. Only the errant breeze, ruffling the mare’s mane, and blowing a tress of copper hair across the girl’s cheek, revealed that the silhouette was composed of flesh and blood.
Below, in the valley, it was business as usual at the Wintersgarth racing stables. From her eyrie, Natalie Drummond could see the second string going out for exercise. It was a world in miniature, operating as if by clockwork. She drew a swift, satisfied sigh.
My world, she thought. My world as it’s never been before.
She would have been down there, riding out with the horses, under normal circumstances, but today she had begged off, told Wes Lovett the head lad to handle the exercising himself. She was too excited, too much on edge to be around highly strung and volatile thoroughbreds. Some of her unease would undoubtedly have communicated itself to them, and caused problems.
She ran an affectionate hand down the mare’s neck. Whereas dear old Jasmine, of course, was too mature and too equable to care, she thought, smiling, as she glanced at her watch.
It was time she was getting back. They might already have phoned from the clinic to say her father was on his way back, and she wanted to be there when he arrived. It would probably be tactful to change out of her riding gear too, she acknowledged wryly. They would have a leisurely lunch to celebrate the fact that Grantham Slater’s heart attack had only been a mild one—a warning shot, Doctor Ellis had called it—and that he was home and safe again, and afterwards, when he was feeling warm and mellow with her stepmother’s incredible cooking, she would talk to him about what the consultant had said.
I can do it, she thought, as she turned Jasmine on to the track which led back to the stables. I’ve proved I can over these past weeks. Grantham can’t just dismiss me as an office clerk any more.
Somehow she would make him see that his absurd prejudice about making her his full partner had to be abandoned.
The consultant had been forthright when he’d talked to Beattie and herself. ‘He’s made an excellent recovery.’ He flicked his pen against the blotter on his desk. ‘But, inevitably, there are going to have to be some changes in his regimen, changes which he won’t like. He’s a determined man, and a successful one—a brilliant trainer of steeplechasers, they tell me. Well, I’m not suggesting he retires, but he has to find a way of taking life very much more easily than he has been doing if he wants to avoid a recurrence of his problem.’ He looked at Natalie. ‘You’re his only child, Mrs Drummond?’
She nodded. ‘My mother died when I was small. She was expecting another baby, but there were complications.’
‘But you do work for your father?’
‘Yes, but up to his illness, I was only a secretary. I did the correspondence, manned the phone, and did the bookkeeping and accounts.’ She looked down at her hands, tightly clasped together in her lap. ‘Grantham’s rather—old-fashioned. He’s never allowed me to be involved in the training side at all. He never even encouraged me to ride—I had to have lessons at school.’ She gave a constricted smile. ‘But you can’t be born and brought up in a racing stable without absorbing a certain amount of expertise. I’ve managed to put mine to good use while my father’s been ill.’
He smiled at her. ‘I’m sure you have.’ He turned to Beattie. ‘And you, Mrs Slater. Are you involved in the running of the stables as well?’
If she hadn’t been so worried, Natalie could have collapsed in gales of giggles at the look of sheer horror on Beattie’s face. Her stepmother was a warm and lovely lady, but she regarded all horseflesh with acute misgivings, and never went anywhere near the stables if she could help it.
Beattie accompanied her husband to race meetings, knowing that her elegant, expensively clad presence beside him was an affirmation of his prosperity, but she usually stayed away from the paddock.
Now she said weakly, ‘I’m afraid not. Do—do you think I should be?’
‘I think someone will have to be,’ the consultant returned. ‘It’s essential that your husband starts to share some of his responsibilities.’ He looked again at Natalie. ‘It would seem, Mrs Drummond, that you’re in the ideal position to do this—your family commitments allowing, of course.’
Natalie lifted her chin. ‘I’m a widow,’ she said quietly. ‘Apart from Beattie and my father, I have no family. I’ll be glad to do whatever I can to help Grantham.’
‘If he’ll let you,’ Beattie observed frankly as they drove home.
‘“If” is right,’ Natalie agreed, her fine brows drawing together as she slowed for a traffic light. ‘Ever since they allowed him access to a phone, he’s been calling Wes with instructions each morning.’ She grimaced. ‘Fortunately they’ve invariably
