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he’d done since leaving hospital four months previously and a dull but persistent ache in his left knee reminded him of that.
    Sarah had climbed on her bicycle and departed for her home in the village, and as Ross lay where he had collapsed on the sofa in his room, he heard Leo go down the wooden stairs and, a few moments later, the roar of his motorbike as he left the yard.
    After the evening meal, Ross combed his hair, pulled on clean boots and jeans and made his way to the main house as the Colonel had suggested.
    At the end of the drive the large grey-stone building looked centuries old as it sat basking in the last of the evening sunshine. Masters, who presumably doubled as chauffeur and butler, opened the impressive, stone-arched, oak front door and with a stiffly polite bow, showed Ross into the study.
    Colonel John Preston turned away from the darkening window at the rear of the room as Ross entered. His gaze travelled up over cowboy boots, faded Levis and blue cotton shirt to Ross’ face and then beyond. ‘Thank you, Masters,’ he said, and the other man withdrew.
    â€˜So,’ the Colonel said, after offering his visitor a leather-upholstered chair and a glass of sherry, ‘you’re a Yank.’
    Ross didn’t rise to the bait, merely inclining his head. He sipped the sherry, which was horribly sweet.
    â€˜I don’t like Yanks,’ his employer stated uncompromisingly. ‘We could have won the war without them and we don’t need them now.’
    â€˜Then why hire me?’ Ross asked evenly.
    The Colonel snorted. ‘I didn’t have much choice with that niece of mine pestering me. Robbie Fergusson, who owns King’s Defender, was threatening to take his horses away if I didn’t find someone soon. Franklin offered to put up the airfare, so what had I got to lose?’ He paused, observing Ross thoughtfully over his glass. ‘Lindsay says you’re good. Are you?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Ross said, returning his gaze steadily.
    â€˜A big-headed Yank.’
    â€˜Did you want me to say no?’
    The Colonel harrumphed.
    â€˜I’ve made enquiries about you,’ he said after a moment. ‘Rumour has it you’ve lost your nerve.’
    â€˜But you don’t listen to rumour.’
    â€˜You think not?’
    â€˜I’m here, aren’t I?’ Ross observed with indisputable logic.
    The Colonel chuckled suddenly. ‘You don’t beat about the bush, do you, Mr Wakelin?’
    â€˜You’re not exactly pussyfooting around yourself,’ Ross said, deciding the gloves were off.
    â€˜No, it’s not my way.’ The Colonel regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, how do you like the place? Do you think you’ll fit in?’
    Ross relaxed a little, sensing another hurdle safely negotiated. He was faintly surprised at the degree of relief he felt, realising that now he was here, he wanted to stay.
    â€˜I like it. You’ve got some promising young horses, I’d say.’
    The Colonel nodded, pleased. ‘They’re a mixed bunch, I suppose, but yes, I’d agree there’s a fair bit of talent there. All they need is the right jockey.’
    They sat in silence for a moment, sipping sherry. Somewhere a dog scratched at a door and Ross heard Masters’ voice as he let it out.
    â€˜I think you’ll find the grooms are good workers,’ the Colonel said then. ‘Leo is new, of course, barely a month here, but he’s had experience – worked in racing stables in Ireland – and he’s a competent rider. He had good references. Sarah is a local girl. She’s young but immensely dedicated.’ He took a long sip of his sherry. ‘Bill’s a real gem. Came to us ten years ago but he’s been around stables all his life. He’s probably forgotten more about horses than you’ll ever know.’
    Ross had always felt that to be a rather dubious recommendation, but