Christopher's Medal Read Free Page A

loyal owner and his breathtakingly handsome guest. Dabbing at it with a wet cloth would just make it worse.
    Bugger it.
    It wasn’t like she had a chance anyway. She was an Assistant Trainer, hardly the sort of girl who would go to Regimental Balls or Polo Matches. They would have to take her as they found her—cross, grubby and desperate for another coffee.
    “Miss Webb’s in the tack room.” David’s voice echoed along the yard. “She’ll be with you in a minute.”
    Not even time for a bloody cigarette.
    Grace plucked the last visible pieces of straw from her hair and walked out into the yard. Seeing Christopher, Grace felt her breath catch in her throat.
    God, he really is something else.
    She managed a smile and in spite of the odor of dirty stables and muck sacks, the General kissed her cheek.
    “Good morning.” Grace straightened the baggy T-shirt. “It’s lovely to see you both again.” She saw Dave hustling from box to box telling everyone to mount up. One by one, the riders brought their horses out of their stables, saddled and ready for exercise. Grace watched them all while they fidgeted with girths and irons. Dave was last to mount up, springing lightly onto a small, bad-tempered gray filly. The horse jigged about until her rider settled into the saddle and smacked her sharply with his whip. It was the first of the morning’s strings—these horses all had races coming up and were race fit.
    “Excuse me for a minute, while I give them some instructions,” Grace told her guests. She crossed the yard and the string walked in a circle around her. “No need to push the horses. Dave, you can lead the way. Take her up at half-speed. If she feels like she’s going to tank off with you, ease her up. The rest of you, just tuck in behind. We don’t want any racing.”
    “All right, we’ll see you on the hill, Boss.”
    Grace watched the horses file over the gravel toward the horse walk. There was still half an hour to kill before she needed to be on the other side of town to watch them work. She wondered what she was going to do with her guests. Her mother wouldn’t be ready for visitors, so a coffee or tea from her was out of the question until breakfast was ready.
    The scent of manure wafted up from Grace’s shirt, reminding her that she ought to change into something clean. She needed caffeine and tried to remember if her cottage was tidy enough for guests. “It’ll be a while before they’ll get over to the Bury side. We might as well get a cuppa.”
    She led them across the yard to her house, trying to remember if she’d left knickers drying on the radiator or unwashed dishes in the sink. Given that her supper the night before had been a bag of chips, she decided she was probably safe. The kitchen was too small for three people to be standing around waiting for a kettle to boil so she shooed them into the living room. She noticed that the General immediately sank down onto the settee and made himself comfortable, picking up a copy of Horse and Hound to read while Christopher wandered around the room, hands in pockets while he studied the photographs hanging on the walls.
    Oh, Christ…not that one, shit.
    Grace’s cheeks burnt when Christopher paused before a picture taken at her graduation party, the day she’d picked up her useless history degree. Knickers on the radiator would’ve been preferable to that photograph, the one where she was wearing an ex-boyfriend’s boxers and a T-shirt with the words ‘old slapper’ scrawled across the front. A paper cocktail umbrella was stuck in her hair… bloody hell. What was worse was that Christopher looked at it for an agonizingly long time, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
    She served the coffee then disappeared into her bedroom to find a clean shirt—one that was neither smeared with horse shit nor emblazoned with a dubious slogan.
    * * * *
    By the time they reached Bury Hill, there were two or three strings, walking in slow