The Horse Thief Read Free

irritated. That house held too many ghosts. ‘That’s too big for me. I can doss down above the stables.’
    â€˜You’ll do no such thing. That’s the stud master’s house and that’s the job you’re after, isn’t it?’ Not giving him time to draw breath, Peggy continued, ‘And that’s where you’ll be staying. You’ll eat over here with Fred, Jilly, the boys and me in the kitchen. Miss India will see you tomorrow. She’ll be pleased. She’s got big plans.’
    Not half as big as his own, he’d put money on that. ‘What about Mr Kilhampton? Ought I have a word with him, tell him I’ve arrived?’
    â€˜Nope. He’s not here. Miss India’s running the show.’
    That wasn’t included in the advertisement. Jim shrugged off the memory of the mischievous pampered child who had hared around under everyone’s feet. Fifteen years of privilege added into the mix would make for a sight to see. Maybe his task would be easier with Kilhampton out of the way.
    She dug a key out of a pocket in her voluminous apron and offered it to him. ‘Off you go then.’
    The key nestled warm and familiar in his palm. He stooped and lifted his saddlebags, then stopped. ‘By the way, I saw a woman out by the lagoon. She looked upset and took off before I could help. I wondered if …’
    The housekeeper’s eyes widened then she shook her head. ‘Nah. Take no notice. She’s from over the way. Rides at sunset most days. Dressed in white, was she?’
    Jim nodded.
    Peggy dusted her hands again, tut-tutting and wrinkling her nose at the mess she’d made of the table. ‘Grub in an hour. Don’t be late.’
    â€˜Right. Won’t be long.’ With his bags slung over his shoulder he followed the path to the cottage door, his footsteps dragging and the bitter taste of the past coating his tongue.
    He counted his steps. Not one hundred and fifty-four anymore, less than half that. The date etched above the door loomed large. He lifted a heavy hand and ran his fingers over the worn sandstone. He no longer needed to jump to reach the initials he’d carved beneath the lintel.
    The key slipped into the lock with ease and he opened the door and ducked inside. Two overstuffed armchairs, both a touch moth-eaten and faded, greeted him. He blinked away the vision of his father sitting in front of the fire. He’d buried him little more than two months ago.
    The cottage was smaller than he remembered, the ceiling lower, the walls closer together. The skeletal coat rack by the door stood empty. He wandered down the hallway and peered into the first bedroom. The patchwork quilt his mother used to bundle him up in covered the simple iron bedstead. Next door the spartan room he’d shared with his brother still housed two narrow single beds. He chucked his saddlebags down and made his way out the back, looking for signs of the diamond python that once lived in the roof trusses. The cottage looked and smelled as though it had stood empty for a long time.
    Outside the old pump hunched against the wall. With a practised kick and a jiggle of the lever he coaxed it into action. It grunted and groaned and spat a damp, rusty cloud over the dirt before a thin stream of tea-coloured water trickled out—ground water, brackish and bitter, not the best. They needed rain, same as the rest of the country. In the old days they pumped up from the lagoon in a dry spell. Regardless he stripped down and sluiced his head and body, then dried off before pacing back into the house and donning a clean shirt. Once he’d fastened the buttons he pulled the door closed behind him and heeded the clanging of Peggy’s bell.

Three
    â€˜Morning, Peggy.’ India wandered into the kitchen and poured a cup of tea from the teapot standing next to the range.
    â€˜Mornin’, my sweet. And how are you this fine