he’d grown to love.
Rory admired and loved his scatty wife, and he wanted to provide for her. To fill the house with children and to help put food on the table, so that she no longer felt the need to take a spreadsheet, calculator, and frown to bed on a regular basis.
Now he looked gloomily into the echoingly empty stable and knew that one particular gift horse had bolted.
With his easy manner and dashing good looks people always assumed that Rory had it easy, but he’d worked his way up the hard way. He had an eye for a good horse, and the type of natural riding ability that meant that he was prepared to take a risk – buy a difficult horse cheap and turn it into a winner. Sometimes all the bruises and scrapes were worth it and it worked; sometimes the best he could hope for was to break even and sell the animal on as a slightly safer ride, but one that was never going to survive in the demanding world of eventing. But he always bounced back onto his feet with a grin on his face and a joke at his own expense.
Six foot tall, with the toned thighs of an athlete, roguish grin, and a wicked sense of humour, the easy-going Rory had always been a hit with the girls. But now, in his early thirties, he was at his peak, both physically and mentally. Rory had always been one of the lads, as comfortable with a pint in his hand as he was with a good malt whisky, and he’d had a female following since his first televised outing, where he’d had a disastrous encounter with a lake.
After the type of ducking that should have left him gasping, he’d very carefully removed his hat and body-protector, run a hand through his sopping curls, then strode out of the lake in full-on Mr Darcy mode, but with a cheeky grin rather than brooding intent. The resultant photographs that were splashed (as he liked to recall) over many a Sunday newspaper won him an adoring fan club and a sponsorship deal that had finally meant he had a reliable horsebox and a horse that wasn’t intent on killing both of them. Over the years he’d come to count his sponsor as a friend. Until today.
Closing the stable door with a heavy clunk, Rory shoved his hands into his jacket pockets then glanced down at the terrier that was seldom far from his feet. ‘We’d better wave goodbye and then go and break the bad news, hadn’t we, Tilly?’ The dog cocked her head on one side, as though she understood every word, then she spun round and made a run towards the archway that divided the stable yard from the main part of the Tipping House Estate.
* * *
Lottie stared at the horsebox as it trundled its way down the long driveway away from Tipping House and wondered if she’d forgotten something important.
As it was winter it was unlikely Rory was competing, and even if he was going to an indoor show-jumping competition with one of the youngsters she was absolutely sure he would have texted her before he set off. It was also highly unlikely he’d just pop out anywhere without telling her, unless he’d discovered a bargain horse that he couldn’t resist and daren’t tell her? She frowned. No, surely he wouldn’t? Not when they were in such dire straits, and even he didn’t often buy horses at this time of year unless they were real bargains, as it just meant months of feeding another mouth. There was the slight possibility he was taking one of the young horses out for a run in the lorry, so that they could add ‘travels well’ to its CV, but she was sure he’d have mentioned it, even if he was only going round the block.
A slight movement down by the yard caught her eye and she was surprised to see Rory standing in the archway, Tilly in his arms, staring after the horsebox in much the same way she was. Which was totally confusing. If Rory was still on the yard, who the hell was driving off with their horsebox?
With a sense of foreboding, Lottie flew down the stairs two at a time, Harry the spaniel at her heels. She shoved her feet into the nearest pair of wellingtons and flung the door open just in time to see her husband disappearing back into the stable yard.
It wasn’t hard to spot Rory when Lottie dashed through the archway into the small circular yard. He was sitting on the edge of the fountain, with Tilly the terrier perched on his knee, looking as sad as she’d ever seen him. Dejected, she decided, was the word.
‘I just saw the horsebox. What’s happened? Rory?’ He put the dog down and stared at her wordlessly. ‘Is one of the horses ill?’
‘Worse. I’m afraid,’ he glanced towards one of the stables, ‘I’ve got some bad news, darling.’ He groaned and put his head in his hands. ‘Shit. I was really hoping I would be able to sort something out before I had to tell you.’ His voice was muffled. ‘I’m sorry.’ The sigh came from somewhere deep inside him and Lottie felt a twinge of alarm. Rory might not be reliable, but he never gave up, he always saw the positive side of things.
She looked around the yard, from stable to stable.
‘Simon. Where’s Simon? He’s not …’ For a horrible moment the word ‘dead’ hung in the air between them, but that was impossible. ‘He’s not in his stable.’ The handsome grey liked to know what was going on, his head was the first to appear at his stable door whenever he heard voices on the yard. He’d nicker a welcome and then wait for the polo mint that he knew he deserved.
‘He’s gone. Oh Christ, I am so sorry.’
Rory repeatedly saying sorry was nearly as alarming as the missing horse. Lottie strode across the yard and peered over the stable door, not because she didn’t believe Rory, but because it didn’t seem possible.
‘Gone, but how can he be gone? You can’t just sell him, Rory, he’s not ours …’
‘Exactly. He’s not ours to sell. David sent somebody over to collect him,’ Rory looked up, tawny eyes sorrowful, ‘he’s pulled out, he’s not going to sponsor me any longer.’
‘But I saw our—’
‘Horsebox? It’s his horsebox, remember, darling. He’s taken his bloody lorry and his horses.’ Rory stood up abruptly. ‘Shit.’ Simon wasn’t just any horse, he was the best horse he’d ever had the opportunity to compete. Maybe not the best he’d ever sat on, but a brilliant, talented horse and a top-class eventer were two different things. Simon was as honest and big-hearted as they came and he knew his job.
The second horse that David had provided was a talented youngster who hadn’t been with them long, but Rory had already bonded with the animal and was convinced he had a brilliant future ahead.
‘But why?’ Lottie stared at him in disbelief. Rory and Simon had gelled from day one, and over the last twelve months had started to look like serious contenders. ‘Why on earth would he do that?’
‘Divorce. He’s getting frigging divorced.’
Lottie looked at him blankly, wondering what that had to do with them. ‘But Simon was going so well for you, and David knew that. I thought he liked us.’
‘He did like us.’ Rory sighed. ‘We’re not the issue. Well, it isn’t actually him that’s got a problem, it’s his wife. He told me a while ago that she’s taking him to the cleaners, wants half of everything and that includes the horses. He was talking about shipping them out of the country, all of them, including Simon, until after the court case, but she beat him to it. It’s her that sent somebody over.’
‘Her? But it’s David who sponsors you. How can she? Couldn’t you stop them?’
‘It’s her name on the papers too, for tax reasons, no doubt.’ Rory rolled his eyes. ‘I couldn’t stop her, believe me I tried to, but she’s got as much right …’
‘Did
