Christopher's Medal Read Free Page B

circles at the foot of the hill. It was still early enough that silvery shreds of mist lingered around their feet and the dew glittered on the soft, cool grass. Grace parked the Land Rover halfway up the hill and watched for Dave and the rest of the string. Because they had already received their instructions, it was just a matter of leaning against the rail and explaining to her guests what was happening. She did not dispel the notion that the horses were running up the hill for any serious exercise—the truth of the matter was that a trip to the Bury side, according to her father, was to impress owners. The real work was usually done on the vast stretch of Newmarket Heath where it was almost impossible for owners to see everything that happened.
    Grace never tired of watching the horses running up the five-furlong track, their hooves drumming on the soft surface accompanied by the fairy jingle of bits. Grace watched the gray filly, Go Be Bold, carefully. She did need the hill-work because her hindquarters were slow to muscle up. She was by a Bold Ruler mare and that stallion’s progeny sometimes had a habit of developing their front end first, which put strain on forelegs already under pressure. Dave had the filly settled beautifully and Grace could see that she was working well.
    “Does she look all right?” Christopher asked when the string eased past with a muffled pounding of hooves.
    “She does. We have to be so careful with her. It’s frustrating because she has the potential to be a really good three-year-old. Dad has been knocking himself out trying to talk her owners into saving her until next year.” Grace stopped herself before she ran on. This was one person she didn’t want to bore with racing matters.
    “Are the owners listening?”
    “So far, yes. There’s been a fair bit of grumbling on their part, but I think they believe him.” She wondered if he was genuinely interested or just being polite. It didn’t matter. He was the nicest sight she had seen on a Saturday morning for a long time. When Grace was satisfied that the head lad had everything in hand, she decided it was time for breakfast.
    * * * *
    By ten o’clock, breakfast was finished and the tour was over. The second lot had been dispatched to the Round Gallop on the Heath, and Harry was sweeping the yard. Grace walked her guests to their car.
    “Thank you so much, dear.” The General kissed her cheek once more. “It’s been very enjoyable.”
    “You’re welcome.” She glanced at Christopher out of the corner of her eye. He was busying himself with putting his jacket in the car. She took one long, last look at him and wished she was the sort who would go to Henley and Glyndebourne. Instead, she resigned herself to dodging the advances of randy jockeys and slimy estate agents. He shook her hand and thanked her as the General got into the car. She wished them both a safe journey and headed back to the yard.
    She went to check on Allonby. He stood in a corner of his box. His bottom lip drooped while he dozed. She crept into the stable and squatted in the straw to check his legs. They were cool and firm to the touch. He nuzzled her hair and she patted his nose.
    “Grace is very silly,” she told him. “You’ll never see her with a velvet headband and pearls eating lunch in Chelsea.” She sighed and rose, leaning against his broad, shining shoulder.
    “It’s best that I stick with the likes of you, don’t you think? Plain, old, boring Grace, the trainer’s daughter.” She closed her eyes, rested her head against his neck and wondered why she felt so deflated and insignificant. At least you knew where you were with horses.
    “Grace?”
    She wheeled around, surprised to find Christopher standing outside the door. “I thought you’d gone.”
    God, I hope he didn’t hear what I said.
    Grace’s cheeks burned.
    “I forgot something.”
    Grace gave Allonby a final pat and slipped out of the stable. “You did?” She tried to