Cut Throat by Lyndon Stacey Page A

encourage.
    â€˜Did you go to college, Ross?’ he asked as they clattered along the country lanes with the dog at their heels. ‘Dad wants me to go to college but I don’t want to. I don’t need A-levels to be a jockey.’
    â€˜Sure I went,’ Ross said. ‘And I went on to law school too. My father wanted me to be a lawyer and join the family firm.’
    â€˜But you didn’t, did you?’ Danny said eagerly. ‘You went your own way. Why can’t Dad see I’ve got a right to live my own life?’
    â€˜I guess he only wants what he thinks is best for you,’ Ross said, cringing inwardly as he heard himself echoing generations of parents with his words. ‘And it never hurts to have some academic qualifications too. Horses are a risky business – look at me, I almost had to go back to studying law.’
    Danny was not convinced. ‘I could always turn to training if I couldn’t ride any more,’ he said with the easy optimism of youth. ‘And anyway, Dad doesn’t want me ever to be a jockey. Not now. Not in two years’ time. Not ever!’
    The American suppressed a smile at his boyish despair. ‘In a year or two he won’t have any say in the matter, as far as I can see,’ he observed. Then, as they turned off the tarmac surface on to a grassy woodland track, ‘Come on, let’s get some practice in now, anyway.’
    He hitched up his stirrups five or six holes and waited while Danny did the same, then, crouched jockey-like over their horses’ necks, they put them into a gallop and thundered down the track between the trees. It wasn’t until they pulled up, legs aching from the unaccustomed position and faces glowing with exhilaration, that Ross remembered it was Ginger he was riding.
    Ross spent the afternoon cleaning tack. It being Monday, Bill was on his own and it didn’t seem fair to leave extra work for him. As he worked amongst the smells of leather, saddle soap and metal polish, Ross pondered his own, so far unrewarded attempts to befriend the man. Scott might, as the Colonel alleged, have an exhaustive fund of equine knowledge locked away in his head but to date that was where it had stayed. Apart from when it was absolutely necessary, he had shown no inclination whatever to talk to Ross.
    He had a strange feeling that Bill regarded him as a failure just waiting to happen, and although the horses’ recent successes had undoubtedly pleased the man, his cold reserve where Ross was concerned had not noticeably warmed.
    As though summoned by Ross’ thoughts, the stable manager appeared in the doorway.
    â€˜I could have done that,’ he observed dourly.
    â€˜That’s okay. I don’t mind.’
    Bill grunted. He wandered around the tackroom, looking at a bridle here, tidying a blanket box there, whistling tunelessly through his teeth all the while, until Ross could cheerfully have strangled him.
    â€˜I’d rather you didn’t encourage Danny in this stupid idea of becoming a jockey,’ Bill said suddenly from behind him. ‘It’s really none of your business.’
    Ross caught his breath at the unfairness of this unexpected attack. He turned slowly to find Bill glaring belligerently at him.
    â€˜I’ve done no such thing,’ he said evenly. ‘But I’ll not discourage him either, and if you’ve got any sense, you’ll hold off too. It’s his life, after all, and if he’s got any spirit, opposition will only make him more determined. Believe me, I know.’
    â€˜It’s none of your bloody business!’ Bill repeated with tight-lipped fury. ‘Just stay out of it. He thinks you’re some kind of hero. Can’t see you for what you really are. When he does, he’ll despise you as he despises me.’
    Ross shook his head emphatically. ‘No. You’re wrong there. He doesn’t despise you. If he did he wouldn’t