Free The Love Apple by Coral Atkinson

in my shawl.’
    ‘Clever,’ said Geoffrey.
    Huia smiled up at him, raising her eyebrows and opening her eyes very wide. ‘Thought you’d be pleased,’ she said.
    After breakfast they broke camp and set off down the long expanse of beach. Ten or fifteen years earlier, this stretch of coast had provided rich pickings for goldminers; all that was left now were the scattered remains of their shacks. Wooden planks stuck out of the sand like dislocated limbs. A piece of iron or a heap of tins and bottles indicated where a man’s hopes, or home of tent or shanty, had once stood.
    Geoffrey initially led the way, but once they reached a wider swath of firm sand Huia rode beside him, with Bluett on Diamond and the packhorses Gypsy, Rex and Bella behind. Bluett spoke little, though he frequently whistled in a rather tuneless way.
    Huia was now cheerful and talkative, her conversation full of questions. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’ ‘Do you know any people with titles?’ ‘What’s wrong with ladies smoking?’ ‘Do you like long fingernails?’
    ‘Stop!’ said Geoffrey, laughing. ‘I can’t cope with such an inquisition so early in the morning!’
    ‘Tell you what,’ said Huia, ‘I’ll race you to that big rock. Curly’s not such a fancy horse as yours but I bet I can make him go faster.’
    ‘What — race with all this gear in the saddlebags?’
    ‘Both horses are loaded,’ said Huia, ‘so that’s fair. Come on. It’ll be fun.’
    ‘You’re on,’ said Geoffrey, nudging Tsar into a gallop. Delighted to run, the big gelding pounded down the beach alongside Huia’s smaller mount. Geoffrey felt the muscles in his thighs tight against Tsar’s flanks, the horse tense and powerful under him.
    The morning parted cool and crisp; sky and surf unrolled like an endless blue scarf. Geoffrey thought of the hunts he’dbeen on as a youth in Ireland. He’d never had much enthusiasm for the kill — always felt sorry for the fox and secretly hoped it would escape. But there was no denying the excitement of the chase, the exhilaration of the mad canter through the countryside, thundering across fields, soaring over fences. The moments when his head and his stomach seemed to be flying in different directions and he felt his body slice the frosty air.
    Racing with Huia brought back those feelings. Geoffrey urged Tsar on, feeling exalted. The horses ran neck and neck, with Huia whipping up Curly and shouting alternately encouragement and abuse.
    A high clump of driftwood lay across their path. Geoffrey had no doubt that they would pass it on either side but as he guided Tsar to the left he realised that Huia was preparing to jump. Crouching over the mane, the girl urged her horse over. On a thoroughbred hunter the obstacle would have been difficult; on this third-rate hack from McIntyre’s stables it was suicide.
    ‘Huia!’ shouted Geoffrey, reigning his mount in. ‘Don’t!’
    It was too late: Curly was over. The jump and Geoffrey’s hesitation gave Huia the advantage and the smaller horse galloped ahead, reaching the rock seconds before Tsar.
    ‘I won!’ said Huia, dancing about on the sand. ‘I won!’
    ‘You could have broken your neck,’ said Geoffrey, dismounting beside her.
    ‘Sour grapes,’ said Huia. ‘You’re just crabby ’cause I beat you.’

    At the end of the beach a large rocky headland stuck far out into the water. The previous time Bluett had passed this way the boulders at the tip of the promontory had been generously shoaled up with sand and gravel so that one could ride around in safety, provided the tide was out. This morning things weredifferent. The tide was low but the head offered no convenient passage. Weather and surf had scoured the sand from around the boulders, leaving only the crowns of rocks visible in the water.
    ‘Shit!’ said Bluett, riding up alongside Geoffrey as the party halted. ‘Don’t much fancy the look of that.’
    ‘Seems a bit iffy to me,’ said