Free Cut Throat by Lyndon Stacey Page A

almost. But seriously, she’s well worth watching. Don’t you have people like her in America?’
    â€˜Sure. I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one at work. And you never know quite how much to believe.’
    â€˜That’s true enough. Still,’ Roger said soberly, ‘whatever the outcome, it’ll be rest and a gradual return to work for this one, I’m afraid. No more jumping for a bit.’
    Ross nodded in resignation.
    Annie Hayward arrived at noon the following day in a Land-Rover that looked as though it had seen service in both World Wars. Somewhere between thirty and fifty, she was a huge woman with an ageless, weather-beaten face, arms like a shot-putter and a voice that would have put a foghorn to shame.
    Although she dressed like a farmer, in jeans and a checked shirt, her long, honey-gold hair was plaited and secured with an incongruous pink ribbon.
    Butterworth behaved like an angel for her. Annie pushed, pulled and prodded, instructing Ross to hold up various of the horse’s feet in turn, and finally slammed the heel of her palm into the side of the chestnut’s spine with a force that made him stagger.
    â€˜Now lead him out,’ she boomed.
    Bill led Butterworth into the yard. The horse moved gingerly at first, as though waiting for the pain, but then gradually grew in confidence and relaxed.
    Ross was impressed.
    Annie wiped her hands on her torn jeans and nodded. ‘Turn him out to grass for six weeks or so then I’ll come again. Unless he looks uncomfortable in the meantime,’ she added. ‘In that case, give me a call.’ She mopped her brow with something that looked suspiciously like a dishcloth, conjured from somewhere about her person. ‘Any beer in the fridge?’ she enquired.
    â€˜Sure.’ Ross smiled and went to fetch some.
    The stable office door was closed and the blind down. When Ross went in there was a slithering crash to his right. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see Leo standing by the refrigerator, just reaching for the handle. Behind him on the floor lay a jumble of pens and papers and an upturned tray.
    â€˜What in hell are you doing?’ Ross demanded.
    â€˜Just getting a beer, Yank. What are you doing?’ Leo returned insolently.
    â€˜You don’t need to turn the office upside down to find the fridge.’
    â€˜I knocked it. It slipped,’ Leo said dismissively.
    â€˜Why didn’t you put the light on so you could see what you were doing?’ Ross sighed. ‘Okay, forget it. But bring a fourpack while you’re there.’
    â€˜Anything you say, Yank.’
    Ross swallowed his irritation, picking up the fallen tray and its contents before following him out. To rise to the bait would only give Leo satisfaction.
    With Butterworth potentially out of action for the best part of the season, Ross had to put his disappointment behind him and concentrate on bringing the others up to his standard.
    He had high hopes of King’s Defender, who was already an experienced campaigner and with improving fitness was a definite prospect for the international shows at Hickstead or Birmingham.
    King’s Defender, at fourteen, could not however have many more seasons in him, nor could Woodsmoke, a ponderous old warrior of sixteen who belonged to Franklin Richmond.
    Simone was essentially a speed horse, jumping the smaller, twisty courses with swift precision but without the scope needed for the bigger tracks. Of the younger novice horses, Ross’ greatest expectations lay with the big German-bred Black Bishop and bouncy, eager Flowergirl.
    In the copse behind the home meadow, somebody had at some time built a small cross-country course of rustic jumps, and Ross and Bill had spent one busy evening repairing broken fences and clearing encroaching undergrowth to make it useable once more.
    On the day following Annie Hayward’s visit to Butterworth, Ross saddled Bishop