Christopher's Medal Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  A Totally Bound Publication

  Christopher’s Medal

  ISBN # 9781781848265

  ©Copyright S.A. Laybourn 2013

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright October 2013

  Edited by Rebecca Douglas

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2013 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 1.

  This story contains 256 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 5 pages.

  CHRISTOPHER’S MEDAL

  S.A. Laybourn

  The wounds of war can run far more than skin deep.

  Grace Webb trains racehorses for a living. It’s a career she’s happy to focus on when her fiancé, Christopher Beaumont, is deployed to Afghanistan. At a time when racing yards are losing horses because of the bad economy, a promising horse like Allonby could be the salvation of her father’s yard. Grace welcomes the chance to concentrate on Allonby in an attempt to stop fretting about Christopher’s growing despondency and the frustration of lousy internet connections.

  When Christopher comes home with horrific leg wounds and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Grace is determined to help him heal. While she fights Christopher’s nightmares, depression and rage, she also faces a battle to save Allonby’s career before it’s had a chance to blossom.

  Christopher, feeling that he’s giving Grace more grief than love, leaves her. Grace couldn’t heal Christopher, but she can help Allonby and keep her father’s yard running. When Christopher returns, seeking forgiveness and a second chance, Grace gives him that chance. This time she won’t let Christopher surrender to his demons. On the eve of the biggest race of Allonby’s career, Grace faces down her worst nightmare—saving Christopher from himself.

  Dedication

  With thanks to my amazing beta readers: Amy Bai, Lisa Brackmann and Clovia Shaw. My long-suffering husband answered all my racing/horse questions so I won’t bean him with the rolling pin next time he comes back late from the pub.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Pimms: Diageo plc

  Land Rover: Jaguar Land Rover Automotive PLC

  Horse and Hound: IPC Media

  Racing Post: FL Partners

  Coke: The Coca-Cola Company

  Red Bull: Red Bull GmbH

  Country Life: IPC Media, Time Inc

  Homer Simpson: Matt Groening/20th Century Fox Television

  Godiva: Godiva Chocolatier, Yıldız Holding

  BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke AG

  Mercedes: Mercedes-Benz, Daimler AG

  Porsche: Porsche Automobil Holding

  Peugeot: Peugeot S.A.

  Monsoon: Monsoon

  Country Living: Hearst Corporation

  Rayburn: Rayburn Range

  Narnia: CS Lewis

  Yahoo: Yahoo! Inc

  BT: BT Group PLC

  Ferris Bueller’s Day Off: Paramount Pictures

  First Time Ever I Saw Your Face: Ewan MacColl

  Every Time We Say Goodbye: Cole Porter

  Pizza Hut: Pizza Hut, Inc

  Airplane!: Paramount Pictures

  Pringle: Pringle of Scotland

  Radio Times: Immediate Media Company Limited

  It’s a Wonderful Life: RKO Radio Pictures Inc.

  Mini: The British Motor Corporation Limited

  Range Rover: Jaguar Land Rover

  Better in Time: J. R. Rotem and Andrea Martin

  Velcro: Velcro

  Jockey Club: The Jockey Club, Royal Charter

  Laura Ashley: Laura Ashley plc

  Channel Four: Channel Four Television Corporation

  Crush: Jess Cates, David Hodges & Emanuel Kiriakou

  Cambridge Blue Cross: The Blue Cross

  Barbour: J. Barbour and Sons Ltd.

  Radio One and Three: British Broadcasting Corporation

  Fruit Gums: Nestlé S.A.

  Chapter One

  “Arse like a fry cook,” Harry declared.

  Grace glanced up from the hoof she was examining. “Who’s got an arse like a fry cook?”

  “This horse, Boss.”

  She straightened up and looked at Harry. He had just finished putting the shark’s tooth quarter-marks on Allonby’s hindquarters and had stepped back to admire his handiwork. Considering that he had probably spent at least three hours in the pub after morning stables, he looked relatively sober. The quarter-marks were perfect and the colt’s coat gleamed like varnished oak, even in the gloom of the saddling enclosure. Grace had learned that Harry could be as pissed as a rat and still turn a horse out to a very high standard.

  She smothered a yawn and wished the colt’s owner wasn’t going to be attending. She was glad that it was the General rather than one of the syndicates. He and his wife were much easier to deal with than a group of inebriated bankers or estate agents.

  “He does look good, doesn’t he?” A racehorse trainer had once said that a good horse should have ‘the look of eagles’. Grace was pleased to see that Allonby had that look when he lifted his head and surveyed the activity on the lawn beyond the enclosure. His ears were pricked and he stared sharply at something that no human could see. That serene and arrogant gaze gave her goose pimples. She just knew she was looking at the winner of the night’s five-furlong sprint.

  Grace patted Allonby’s neck and glanced at her watch. “The General should be here soon.”

  The paddock quickly filled up with other horses, trainers, grooms and owners, standing in knots on the lawn. Women dressed in summer finery enjoyed the soft warmth of the July evening as they strolled across the lawn. Grace envied them their
Pimms and gin and tonics as she took a sip of lukewarm water from her plastic bottle while she searched the crowd for Allonby’s owner. The jockeys were already making their way out of the weighing room and she spotted Billy Riley in the General’s gray and claret colors. Allonby’s owner, guest in tow, also strode across the grass toward her.

  Grace allowed herself a relieved smile when Harry handed her the saddle, grateful that the General was one of those owners who stayed out of the saddling enclosure. She hated the owners who lingered in the box, pestering her with questions and talking as if they knew something. Grace tightened the girth and patted the colt on the rump when Harry led him toward the paddock. Allonby walked ‘like a hooker’—another pearl of wisdom. He had a loose, easy swinging stride and, although he was busy looking around, the lead rein remained relaxed and the colt’s ears twitched while he listened to Harry talking calming nonsense. Her father had put a lot of work into the horse and Grace could see why. People stopped to watch him when he ambled past, then look at their race-cards. She wondered what odds he was getting down in the betting ring.

  “He looks good, Miss Webb,” Billy observed as they headed toward the owner.

  “He does. If you behave yourself, we might win this one.”

  The jockey laughed. “Don’t you worry. I’ll save the bad stuff for after—fancy joining me?”

  “No thanks. You know me, no stamina these days. Plus, Dad’s up at York tonight so I’m in charge tomorrow.”

  “You always have an excuse, Boss.”

  “With good reason. Remember the last time we went out? I didn’t stop vomiting for days. You have lousy taste in restaurants, Billy.”

  Grace smiled when she approached the General. He was easy to spot in a crowd, with thick white hair and an alarmingly red complexion.

  “Hello, Grace.” He took her hand and kissed her cheek. “It’s lovely to see you.”

  “It’s lovely to see you, too.”

  “I brought a guest, I hope you don’t mind. Mary couldn’t make it. She had a bridge tournament or something like that. Anyway, this is Christopher Beaumont. I served with his father in the army. His family and mine have been friends for years.”

  Grace became aware of his companion for the first time, a tall, lanky man with short, brown tousled hair and almond-shaped eyes the color of strong tea. “It’s nice to meet you,” she murmured as he shook her hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too. I’ve heard a lot about you, Miss Webb.”

  “All good things, I hope.” She offered him a smile and took in the neatly pressed chinos and the blue and white striped shirt. His eyes held her, dark and rich with secrets.

  My God, he’s beautiful. How am I supposed to concentrate on a race with this distraction?

  His cologne smelled of juniper and lemons and Grace felt like an idiot while she fumbled to retrieve her Assistant Trainer frame of mind. Billy stood at her elbow awaiting her instructions. She turned to him and hoped that no one saw him wink. “Keep him tucked in behind the Godolphin horse,” she told him while they walked across the paddock. “That’s the one you have to watch, but I don’t think I need to tell you that. If there’s still plenty in Allonby at two furlongs out, move him out and let him run. He’s as fit as he’s ever been.”

  Another wink. “Yes, Boss.”

  Harry turned Allonby in and Grace gave Billy a leg up. She caught a glimpse of the favorite who jigged about, coat darkened by sweat. “It seems,” she said to him, “that the Godolphin horse is a bit worked up. That’s no bad thing.”

  Billy grinned. “Don’t worry, Boss. I’m on it. Just put your eyes back in your head and do your be-nice-to-the-owner thing. I don’t think you’ll find it hard tonight, somehow.”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “Nah. I just know you, that’s all.” He gathered up the reins and patted the colt on the neck. “See you in the winner’s enclosure.”

  Grace stood on the edge of the grass and watched them walk toward the course. Allonby was still calm, still taking everything in. Even in the warmth of the evening, he hadn’t broken into a sweat. He swished his black tail and followed the other horses.

  “So, Grace, what do you really think?”

  She was unaware that the General had come to stand beside her. “I think he could win. He worked really well last week and ate up afterwards. That’s always a good sign.”

  “What does that mean?” Christopher asked. “That he ‘ate up’? Is that important?”

  Grace looked at him and felt absurdly pleased that he seemed interested in what she had to say. “When a horse does hard work it takes a lot out of them. Some horses can be a bit picky and they won’t eat afterwards. It’s as if they get too wound up and they won’t settle. Allonby didn’t let his hard work bother him. He ate everything he was given. He’s like that. He’s very laid back, except where it matters.”

  Someone strolled past with a huge plastic cup full of Pimms and Grace wanted one. She also wanted a cigarette but resigned herself to waiting until after the race. “We’d better find a place in the stands,” she said absently.

  They followed her as she picked her way along the front of the stands. She kept her eye on Allonby, watching as he cantered lightly toward the start. She could tell from the set of his ears that Billy was talking to him, keeping him calm. She loved the way that the colt skimmed so easily across the grass. Her father was convinced that he could win the big sprint at Newbury in September, and this race was the first test of his ability.

  Christopher discovered some space in the stands and Grace found herself wedged between him and the General. She tried not to let the cologne distract her and, instead, studied the formbook with more diligence than usual until the horses went behind the stalls and the steward raised the flag. Then, Grace forgot all distractions when the gates flew open and twelve two-year-old thoroughbreds sprang onto the track in a melee of jockeys, silks and thundering hooves. Grace spotted Billy and was glad to see that he had tucked himself neatly behind the Godolphin horse at the rail.

  Allonby ran smoothly, not fighting his rider’s hands. He flicked his ears back as he listened to Billy. At the three-furlong pole, Grace held her breath when he eased out from behind the other horse. It was clear that he still had plenty of go in him. Billy hadn’t even picked up his stick. Instead, he leaned low and pushed forward with his hands and heels. Grace sat on her hands. If she’d been watching the race alone at home, she would’ve been riding the race with Billy, yelling him on, pushing her hands out as if she were holding the reins. At the two-furlong mark, Allonby stretched his neck and found another gear. He pounded past the third-place horse at the next pole and, when he approached the final furlong, swept past the second horse with contemptuous ease before bearing down on the laboring leader. Billy showed him the stick and he quickened once more.

  Grace finally let her trainer’s restraint slide. “Go on, Big Al, you can do it.” She stood up and shouted, “Come on, boy!”

  Allonby pinned his ears back as he came alongside the leader and ran on, galloping toward the finish. The General squeezed her arm when his horse flew across the line, a clear half a length ahead of the other horse. Grace could hardly feel his grip and she tried, very hard, not to jump up and down like a schoolgirl at a Take That concert. Trainers weren’t supposed to do that. She caught a drift of cologne and remembered the other reason why she needed to restrain herself.

  “My God,” the General exclaimed. “He made it look easy.”

  Grace nodded. Her heart pounded. “He did, he was wonderful.” Her legs shook. She also realized that she’d just made herself look a bit of a fool in front of a very attractive man. She really wanted that cigarette. She led the way through the crowd and back to the paddock, where a jubilant Harry was already in possession of his charge.

  Billy greeted her with a huge grin when he slid from Allonby’s back. “That’s a hell of a horse, Gracey.” He unfastened the girth and took the saddle. “I’d better go and weigh in.�
�� He ruffled her hair with his free hand. “The Old Man did a bloody good job with this one.” He shook the General’s hand and headed for the weighing room. Harry walked the colt around the tiny enclosure. Grace threw the light netting rug across Allonby’s back and wanted to hug him. Instead, she patted him and let his owner do the hugging. The General hugged everything and everyone, from his horse, to Harry, to Grace, to his companion. She was sure he would’ve hugged the steward given half a chance.

  “I’m going to get us all a drink,” he declared while Harry led Allonby back toward the saddling boxes. “What would you like, Grace?”

  “A Pimms, I could really use a Pimms.”

  “Excellent choice.” He turned to his guest. “Come on, then, Chris, let’s get the lady a drink while she sees to my horse.”

  Christopher scarcely heard what Richard said while they walked across the grass toward the trees and the bar. The paths were crowded with people and clustered three or four deep around the bar. He hated crowds. He hated this crowd more than others because he wanted to get back to her.

  “Are you all right, Chris? You seem miles away.” Richard edged through a gap and found a space by the bar.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” He wasn’t. He was thinking of Grace.

  When Richard had persuaded him to escape the barracks for the night, he’d expected nothing more than a pleasant evening at the races. Horseracing was a foreign country to him and he’d liked the idea of being with a racehorse owner and getting a glimpse behind the scenes. All the way up in the car, Richard had talked about his horse, the trainer and the trainer’s daughter. By the time they’d reached the Newmarket turnoff, Christopher had realized that the conversation had turned almost exclusively to Grace with Richard singing her praises. He wasn’t exactly subtle when it came to matchmaking. Christopher had gazed out of the window and let the talk go over his head. Doubtless, she’d be all teeth and tally-ho. He’d met plenty of that type at Regimental Balls, hard-riding debutantes who hated that fox-hunting was banned and soon lost interest in him when he said he’d never been near a horse.