Page 26 of The Black Trilogy

I was tempted to say no, but I thought of the grief it would cause George and nodded instead.

Then she turned to Arabella. “I’m going to jump Samara. Where’s Luke? He needs to carry things.” She pulled out her phone, tapped at the screen, and demanded Luke report for duty immediately at the outdoor arena.

Poor guy.

I made Gameela comfortable then helped to tack up Samara. Luke slunk back into view, followed by half a dozen groupies who’d materialised out of nowhere.

As he walked past, he cut his eyes in my direction and muttered, “Give me strength.”

Sorry, but I barely had enough of my own right now. I offered a half-smile instead.

A little while later, I’d finished tidying up the piles of grooming kit and tack dumped everywhere, and that meant I was done for the morning. But there was still no sign of Portia. Before going back home, curiosity made me take a detour to the arena to see how she was getting on with her show jumping. I didn’t even know Samara could jump. Arab horses weren’t exactly renowned for it.

Oh dear. When I rounded the corner, it soon became apparent from the mess of poles on the ground that Samara couldn’t jump. Portia was sitting in the sand, crying, while Luke tried to hold onto the horse and calm his sister down at the same time. I jogged across and took Samara, leaving Luke to deal with Portia, who deserved an Oscar for her performance.

“Stupid horse,” she screeched. “She tripped over; that’s why I fell off. She didn’t even try to jump the fence properly.”

Samara fidgeted beside me, shifting her weight off her left foreleg and flicking her ears back in a sign of discomfort. I struggled to care about Portia, but her horse was a different story. Fearing the worst, I trotted the mare up, and sure enough, she was lame.

Whatever happened, the poor horse had come off worse than her owner. I led Samara over to where the drama queen was being fawned over by the rest of her coven, biting my tongue so hard it hurt.

“Portia, Samara’s injured.”

“And? What am I supposed to do about it?”

“How about looking after her? Then calling the vet?”

“You do it. That’s what you’re here for. Look at me, I’m all dirty!”

That little witch. Some people didn’t deserve to have animals. Luke, to give him credit, looked suitably horrified by the whole exchange.

“Tia, get in the car,” he ordered.

“I need to get my bag. And change my boots. And I want a drink.”

“Get. In. The. Car.”

Ooh, I liked angry Luke. About time somebody put Portia in her place, although I was surprised when she actually did as she’d been told with only one small mutter of protest.

After she’d stomped off, Luke walked over to me. “How bad is it?”

“I’m not sure. There’s a bit of heat in the ligament just below the knee. I’ll cold hose her leg to keep the swelling down, but she needs the vet.”

Luke’s sigh said it all.

“I’ll call him.”

Ten minutes later, the vet arrived. Pretty quick, but everything in England was so much closer together than in the States.

“Just finished up with a nasty case of colic in Upper Foxford. Good thing I was passing,” he said, ambling across from his Land Rover.

A kind old chap with a soft Scottish accent, he chatted away to Samara about rugby as he examined her leg. Mindless chatter was a tactic I’d used myself with Stan. Horses may not understand your words, but they sure understood your tone and responded to it.

Portia stayed in the car while the vet worked. Luke wandered over briefly and they had words, then she sulked in the passenger seat, arms folded, while Luke paced up and down the central aisle of the barn. At least he steered clear of Samara. If he’d come near and upset her, I’d have had words with him too.

Before long, the vet rose to his feet. “Looks like the suspensory ligament, but she’ll need a scan to confirm it. Can you bring her in on Monday?”

Luke stopped wearing a hole in the concrete and turned to me. “If I sort the transport, can you travel with her? Tia’ll be at school, and I doubt she could handle her, anyway.”

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