Lily's Leap (13 page)

“Thirsty,” she croaked, “but I’m alright, just sore,” It was a blatant, outright lie. She was shocked and battered and bruised, however, she wouldn’t admit it to him for all the tea in China. He offered a tin mug. She nodded slowly and he lifted it to her mouth.

“Take it easy, not too fast.”

She gulped the clean water washing away the taste of filthy river water until finally her thirst dissipated and she pushed the mug away. “I don’t care what happens to me, I just want to get the horses to Sydney. Are
they
alright?” He had to know it was the most important thing in the world to her.

A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. “You weren’t in such a hurry to get to Sydney this morning.”

Memories of the warm bed and sleeping in his comforting embrace at The Settler’s Arms raced through her and heat rose to her cheeks. “I just want it over.” She turned away from him and pulled the blanket closer, curling up into a tight ball on the hard ground as close to the fire as she dared.

Sometime during the night she woke and shifted to ease her cramped muscles. Her eyelids flew open in the darkness. The warmth behind her smelled of damp and sweat and leather and horses. Tom’s arm was thrown casually over her hips, his chest pressed against her back and his legs curving beneath her buttocks. Now she understood why she was so warm.

Lying very still, she listened to his even breathing. Her hair moved ever so slightly as he exhaled. His body fitted so comfortably against hers. She relaxed, sighed softly and snuggled closer against him as sleep claimed her again.

****

Lily’s silence was beginning to irritate Tom. The events of yesterday had shaken them all but they’d succeeded. The river had been crossed, they were on the way to Sydney and Lily, though bruised, had survived the ordeal. After a decent night’s sleep, Jem’s kangaroo stew for breakfast and today’s clearer skies, things ought to be looking up. The horses hadn’t come to any harm except perhaps Nero whose mood apparently matched that of his mistress.

“We’ll be in Windsor tonight,” he said trying to break through the shroud of misery clinging to her.

Lily stared vacantly ahead and her exhaustion was palpable. The blue shadows around her beautiful eyes made them appear even larger in her pale face. She looked hollowed out and undoubtedly felt as sore as all hell.

“Hmm.”

He smiled and leaned toward her. At least he had finally received a response, albeit a fairly noncommittal one. He searched his mind trying to come up with something closer to her heart, something to elicit a viable response. He felt inept, inadequate and had no idea what to do. The responsibility weighed more heavily on him with every passing moment. He suddenly wished he’d told George to go to hell, handed Lily and the horses over and shot through. “Are you still going to enter Nero in the race?”

“Of course I am.”

He raised an eyebrow at the sudden spark of determination in her voice.

“You realize he hasn’t got much of a chance of winning after what he has been through.”

Her head almost snapped off her shoulders as she swung around to face him, her eyes blazing. At least he had woken her.

“I am entering him and he will win.”

“He’s exhausted. Like you. Not a good idea.” Dialogue and plans were good. Anything to bring the life back to his beautiful treasure.

“He’ll be fine.” Her clipped tone caused a jolt of surprise as he dragged his mind back to the conversation. “Thomas Haydon used to ride Young Dover nearly a hundred miles to Maitland to compete in all three two-mile races, and win. If he can do it, so can Nero.”

“Yes but he didn’t do it after swimming the Hawkesbury in flood.”

“That was yesterday. Nero will be fine to race tomorrow.”

“What if I say no?” His hand came up to cover his mouth. It was too late. The words were spoken. Her eyes widened until he could see the entire purple globe of her iris, a sort of water lily purple today.

“What if I don’t ask you?” No honeyed tones today, just icy cold like the Hawkesbury in flood.

“Well, how are you going to enter him in the race? Who is…” His words died away and he knew if he lived to be a hundred the load of his idiocy would never weigh so heavily on him again. He was a fool, an unseeing, total fool. “You’re going to ride him yourself,” he said. His flat statement of fact hung in the air. “You never intended anyone else should ride him. You only agreed so your father would allow you to come.”

Her shiny curls were loose and tousled around her face. They bounced as she shook her head slowly as if gently reprimanding a young child, and then she smiled and the sun came out.

“Of course I am going to ride Nero.” Her hand caressed the black velvet neck. “And we are going to win. Aren’t we, boy?”

Chapter 7

The buzz of activity hit Tom the moment they entered the town, lifting his spirits and re-enforcing the knowledge it had been a long time since he had brushed shoulders with his fellow man. The colony was on the up and up and there was a spirit of anticipation and promise in the air.

The Windsor meet was one of the biggest events on the Hawkesbury social calendar, not only a series of horse races but also a well-attended country fair. Musicians and dancers, visitors from Sydney and all over the colony descended on the town. Dedicated horse lovers, breeders, gamblers and farmers relished the opportunity to attend the fair. It was a chance to meet with others, swap stories and experiences and line the pockets of the publicans. Even the poorest of the ticket-of-leave families knew if they could get their hands on a horse it could secure their future. And who in the colony didn’t live in hope, a flutter on the races might make the difference to their world? He might even lay a bet or two. Certainly one on Nero. The stallion was a legend. He owed the horse of huge debt of gratitude. The way he had responded to his whistle and ploughed through the surging current bringing Lily back to him would stay in his mind for a long time

Many of the women were dressed in colorful gowns, some of the men in formal attire and others in working clothes. Luckily the variety allowed them and the mob of horses to blend into the mismatched crowd. Social divisions were forgotten as everyone concentrated on the Sport of Kings, the growing passion of the colony.

The men with horses to sell were undoubtedly professional breeders and Tom’s senses prickled, aware of the eyes following Lily and Nero. He squinted at them hoping their eyes followed the horseflesh. They’d better be. They could keep their eyes off the woman who rode beside him.

The expression on Lily’s face assured him her tiredness had been replaced by a patent excitement as obvious as the broad smile on her face. She’d told him she had never been to the Windsor races before and he had no reason to disbelieve her, but she was certainly in her element. She must have attended many such days in the Hunter. He felt a stab of pride as he watched her move through the crowds with assurance and confidence. Not in the least intimidated among the horse breeders, nodding and acknowledging the various men who seemed to know her, Nero following her loyally.

She stopped to look at a black mare, its coat as smooth and glossy as a cockatoo’s wing. She ran an expert hand down the fetlock and picked up the hoof to inspect it. Everything in her poise screamed expertise. Her casual confidence. Daughter of the Dungarven Stud. Where had she learned it? Not from her father. Her every movement shouted her lineage. She moved on toward the racetrack and Tom followed, seeing Lily as the central character on a stage and he watched her every move.

The fact she had been educated with that husband of hers accounted for her riding skill, chess-playing acumen and obvious logic and business sense. They were all attributes expected to be found in a son not a daughter. So, had Dungarven lavished an education on Lily because his wife hadn’t produced a son? If so, why hadn’t he come rushing to her defense? Tom gave up trying to make sense of it all, doubting he would ever fully understand the complicated background of this amazing woman.

A buckskin stallion stood out from the rest of the horses, his mane braided tightly, accentuating his proud, arched neck. Even at a distance the quality of breeding was obvious.

“A Hunter animal,” Lily murmured. “We’re the only area producing those colors. He’s Nero’s opposition.” A small group of punters vied with Lily to examine the horse, discussing the odds and asking questions.

He scanned the group, his gaze coming to rest on a battered cabbage tree hat lurking on the outskirts of a group. George! Now what was he doing here? He was supposed to be back at Wordsworth relaying his messages. If he was here it meant…Tom pushed his hat back, frowning and using the advantage of being mounted to gaze over the assembled crowd. He felt rather than saw Lily stiffen beside him and he looked down at her. Her skin seemed even paler than it had when he had dragged her from the water.

“Father.” The stuttered word escaped her lips like a curse and curled up toward his ear. He followed her gaze, certain Dungarven would spot them in an instant. Stallions of Nero’s caliber were hardly an everyday occurrence and already he could sense people’s eyes drifting from the buckskin to his polar opposite–Nero.

“I don’t want to see him until the race is over. What’s he doing here?” Her earlier confidence slipped and his skin prickled with the desire to leap to her defense.

Tom slipped from his horse intent on putting himself between Lily and any danger.

“Follow me. Come on. We will go and get you registered for the race and then wait over by the trees and appear just as Nero’s race is called.”

****

Many of the horses lined up to race looked like stockmen’s mounts, a smattering of thoroughbreds and a few could have been descendants of Jack Brumby’s herd, however, none had the elegance of Nero’s Arabian heritage, despite their powerful frames. His race was the culmination of the day, the betting high and the prize money higher. The purses for most of the other races were relatively small and they watched race after race where men hunched over their horses and thundered down the track chasing the prize purses.

Lily breathed a sigh of relief thankful the worst of the heat of the day had passed. She and Tom walked Nero and the gray over to the mounting yard. His race, as the main event, was scheduled to start at four. Nero had started to become skittish, all the noise and excitement around him making him toss his head and stamp and snort restlessly. Lily patted his glistening neck trying to calm him and mounted.

“Let me tighten your stirrups. You need them short.”

She took the gray’s reins from Tom, her mouth was dry and waves of nausea churned through her. For a fleeting moment she wondered if she should pull out. She clenched her teeth and bunched her fists tightly around the reins, willing her hands to stop shaking and her stomach to settle. All her hopes and aspirations hung on this race. If Nero won, Wordsworth would once again be on the map, she could stand him at stud and people would flock to bring their mares for service.

“You’re nervous.” Tom’s bland statement of the obvious firmed her resolve and all thoughts of pulling out disappeared.

She fought for control and tried to banish the tremble from her voice. “Yes I’m nervous.” She forced a laugh through her dry lips. “But I’m not backing out now.”

“You can call it off if you want, or I can ride Nero.” She answered him with a raised eyebrow and he leaned closer. She dropped her head to his, relishing the gentle tickle of his breath against her ear. “Good luck. You’ll do it and I shall be waiting at the finish line.”

She smiled at him, warmed by his support and crossed through the mêlée to the mounting yard before she settled into her saddle. With a brief wave, she walked Nero to the starting area where another twenty-five horses hassled each other as they stretched out in a haphazard line. The surge of excitement rose in her throat, almost choking her as she pulled her hat down further on her head and clamped the chinstrap tight tucking her hair under her collar.

She could do this. She knew Nero had the power and stamina to win. Her gaze roamed across the other competitors as she assessed their potential. Many of the horses were large and powerful, however, none had the arrogance and flair of Nero, his Arab blood showed through, and she knew she had the advantage of being smaller and lighter than many of the other riders. Would it be enough?

She tightened the reins and clamped her knees as Nero pranced from side to side; the sooner the race started the happier she would be.

“Steady, boy.” She leaned forward over his neck soothing him. “This is nothing. We cleared the wall, we can take on these hacks and win any day.” The winning purse would be the icing on the cake and go some way to repaying Tom for his assistance, but the real prize lay in the stud fees that would come and put Wordsworth back on the map.