The Country Lovers Read online

  By Fiona Walker

  French Relations

  Kiss Chase

  Well Groomed

  Snap Happy

  Between Males

  Lucy Talk

  Lots of Love

  Tongue in Cheek

  Four Play

  Love Hunt

  Kiss and Tell

  The Love Letter

  Sealed with a Kiss

  The Summer Wedding

  The Country Escape

  The Woman Who Fell in Love for a Week

  The Weekends of You and Me

  The Country Set

  The Country Lovers

  COUNTRY LOVERS

  Fiona Walker

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Fiona Walker, 2019

  The moral right of Fiona Walker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset by Silicon Chips

  ISBN (HB): 9781784977276

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781784977283

  ISBN (E): 9781784977269

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London ECIR 4RG

  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue: 2012

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Part 2

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part 3

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part 4

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part 5

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  To the OM Sisterhood: SP, LB and HB (my brilliant divorce lawyer), on all of whose wise shoulders I cried more than once while writing this, in laughter as much as frustration.

  Map

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Luca O’Brien: a globe-trotting rider and Irish charmer with a heart-breaking reputation, known throughout the equestrian world as the Horsemaker.

  Veronica ‘Ronnie Percy’ Ledwell: chatelaine of Compton Magna Stud, a fast-riding blonde whose ill-fated marriage to handsome Johnny Ledwell ended with a swift exit in a lover’s sports car.

  Alice Petty: her estranged daughter, a bossy Pony Club stalwart.

  Tim Ledwell: Ronnie’s son, a debonair wine merchant with a complicated love life in South Africa.

  Patricia ‘Pax’ Forsyth: their younger sister, the family peacemaker whose marriage to tough Scot Mack is a battlefield.

  Kes: their five-year-old son.

  Muir and Mairi: Mack’s parents, granite-faced puritans.

  Lizzie: Pax’s friend from junior eventing days.

  Lester: the stud’s tight-lipped stallion man, dedicated to his horses, his routine and a quiet life.

  Blair Robertson: craggy Australian three-day-event rider known as ‘Mr Sit Tight’.

  Verity Verney: his wife, a reclusive Wiltshire landowner.

  Carly Turner: animal-loving young mum, adjusting to village life and job juggling.

  Ash Turner: her ex-soldier husband whose family rule the Orchard Estate.

  Ellis, Sienna and baby Jackson: their three children.

  Janine Turner: Ash’s older sister, queen of cleaning and nail art empires.

  ‘Social’ Norm: the emphysemic Turner family patriarch, a settled Romany.

  Ink and Hardcase: Ash’s old school friends and drinking buddies.

  Flynn the farrier: another childhood friend, the Bon Jovi of the anvil.

  Skully: a wily operator and unofficial medicine man.

  Auriol Bullock: battle-axe headmistress of Compton Magna Primary School.

  Helen Beadle: divorce lawyer and sharp-minded chairman of the school’s PTA.

  Bridget Mazur: Belfast-born member of the village’s Saddle Bags, a hipster young mum married to volatile Polish builder, Aleš.

  Flavia and Zak: their two young children.

  Petra Gunn: historical novelist and neglected wife, founder of the Saddle Bags whose gossipy hacks keep her sane.

  Gill Walcote: straight-talking member of the Saddle Bags who runs a local veterinary practice with Kiwi husband.

  Mo Dawkins: the jolliest of the Saddle Bags, a tirelessly hardworking farmer’s daughter.

  Bay Austen: dashing agricultural entrepreneur, hunt thruster and serial flirt.

  Monique Austen: his steely Dutch wife.

  Suzy ‘Sous Vide’ David: an on-trend schleb chef and new proprietor of The Jugged Hare.

  Animals

  Beck: an explosive warmblood stallion, once Germany’s hotly-tipped new star, as stunning as he is screwed up.

  Cruisoe: the stud’s foundation stallion whose winning progeny inherit his lion heart.

  Spirit: a wall-eyed colt with a big man attitude and a bright future.

  The stud’s broodmares: an opinionated bunch of matriarchs.

  Craic: Bridge’s nervouscited Connemara pony.

  The Redhead: Petra’s rabble-rousing mare.

  Coll: her sidekick, a brutish greedy Shetland.

  Lester’s cob: as mannerly and well-turned-out as its rider.

  Olive and Enid: Ronnie’s sprightly little Lancashire Heelers, a squabbling mother and daughter.

  Stubbs: Lester’s unswervingly loyal fox terrier.

  Knott: Pax’s cautious deerhound puppy.

  Pricey: a bull lurcher bred for coursing.

  Laurence: a rescued fox cub.

  Barista and Jam: the Mazurs’ cats.

  Prologue

  2012

  Fresh from the deep freeze, the vodka bottle opened with a satisfying crack of metal seal and a vaporous curl of condensing air.

  If Luca had come to work in the Middle East with the intention of sobering up, he wasn’t doing a very good job. In the eight weeks he’d been here, he’d barely seen the wagon amid all the chauffeur-driven luxury and million-dollar horseflesh, let alone got on it. All the westerners he’d got to know – and there were many on the showjumping circuit – drank like fish behind closed doors. A man with a habit and a broken heart could only swim against the tide for so long in a dry country.

  The frozen vodka poured thick as oil, the toxic nectar which had made his host country among the wealthiest horse-loving nations.

  ‘Skål!’

  ‘Sláinte.’ Luca tipped his glass against that of his companion, a pretty Swedish event rider called Signe who he knew vaguely from the European circuit, also attracted by the heat and money. Like him she was a work rider, hired to mentor a young member of the ex
tended royal family – in her case their boss’s oldest granddaughter, a teenage princess with her ambitions set on being the first Arab winner of Badminton. Today she’d told Signe that the world’s biggest pop pin-up, a snake-hipped American youth with twenty million Twitter followers, had been booked by her indulgent grandfather to sing at her sixteenth birthday party, his fee big enough to buy a superyacht for every day of the week.

  ‘It’s so crazy, the money here!’ Signe exclaimed, playing with Luca’s hair. They had slept together the previous week – he’d been very drunk, full of determined charm, and only had partial recall – and now that seemed to give her permission to stroke him all the time, like a pet dog. He couldn’t decide whether he liked it. ‘If you could have any musician play at your birthday, who would it be?’ she asked.

  ‘Leonard Cohen.’

  ‘Depressing duh?’ She had a cute huck to her laugh. He missed a lover’s laughter. ‘Shouldn’t you have an Irish singer?’

  ‘That’s like saying you have to choose Abba because you’re Swedish.’

  ‘I would choose Abba.’

  ‘Good on ya.’

  ‘Only they split up before I was born.’ She pulled a sad face.

  ‘Too bad.’

  ‘I bet the boss here could pay enough for Abba to get back together.’ She sighed, eyes sparkling.

  Luca doubted that, his own battered heart heavy at being bought. Taking on this contract, he’d imagined that immersing himself in patriarchal, male-dominated isolation would be cathartic, a marche ou crève crusade, far from the woman he loved but could never have. Instead, living in a country so controlling it kept its mothers, wives and daughters behind veils and closed doors, felt like joining a cult of perdition. The expat women like Signe, with their deep tans, white teeth and tight breeches, were a predatory, self-protective tribe, equally bad for his health.

  Blue-eyed, ruddy-faced and athletically seductive, Signe was like a lot of horse professionals Luca knew, who rode hard all day and viewed recreational sex as the after-party. They were cut from the same cloth, nomadic work riders who followed the competition seasons round all continents, love and commitment top-shelved. Probably in her early thirties, she was old enough to know what she was doing and was good company, with her melodic voice, upbeat attitude and ready laugh. The perfect no-strings fling was being dangled in front of his eyes, had he not been so tied up in knots, counting the days until he was free from his royal noose.

  Keeping his head down and grafting harder than ever, Luca was determined to stick it out. He was here to help the most talented horse he’d ever worked with get to the Olympics – and he was being paid a lot to do it. His only obstacle was the lad who would be riding him there.

  ‘Golden boy fall off again today?’ asked Signe, unbuttoning his shirt as deftly as she plaited a mane.

  ‘Yep. That’s five days in a row. They’re competing again tomorrow, so they are.’

  ‘Your accent is such a turn-on.’ Her kiss tasted of vodka. He liked that. Grey Goose, the kick pure as sea surf in this hotbed of fake rain, steel high rise and plastic trees.

  Coming up for air and turning away to refill their glasses, he dwelt reluctantly on the memory of the boy at his last competition, unable to get the horse out of the collecting ring, dumped in the silica sand at the FEI official’s feet. Luca had worked the stallion for an hour beforehand, privileged to be balanced on a fast-thinking powerhouse, the rocket detonating over practice fences, a warhorse ready to lay down his life to win, his trust total. But when the boy had taken over, his skills sketchy and his nerves tight, his faith was not in the horse or in Luca, but in a birthright and advantage beyond their reach. Luca couldn’t have done any more to help, short of brainwashing the stallion to believe that the kid could ride.

  ‘Mishaal needs to learn more feel.’ He let the second vodka burn into him. ‘Right now, he thinks showjumping is just about steering and staying on.’ The thirteenth child of a high-ranking royal, the young prince was a go-cart driver with a Grand Prix ego.

  ‘If anyone can teach feel, you can, yes?’ Signe slapped her small palm against Luca’s, fingers interlacing to draw his hand to her mouth, bonbon blue eyes gazing up into his. He sensed she knew exactly how cute she looked.

  ‘As Mishaal keeps reminding me, his showjumping coach is a four-time gold-medallist from California.’ He gently removed his forefinger from her mouth, its soft, wet suck too fast-track. ‘I’m just here to warm up the saddle for him.’

  ‘You’re way more than that.’ Signe was indignant. ‘You are the Horsemaker. Does golden boy have any idea how lucky that makes him?’

  Luca was grateful to her, cupping her face, tipping his twice-broken nose against her upturned one, then ducking away from another kiss to finish his vodka shot.

  Luca O’Brien – known to all as the Horsemaker – had a well-renowned knack for settling difficult horses, making his home wherever he laid his Samshield helmet. It had kept him packing light and flying long haul for a decade, a literal globetrotter.

  The horse he’d accompanied on this job was more difficult than most: Bechstein was named after the exquisite handmade concert piano, which was fitting given that it took a virtuoso to get a tune out of him. Highly strung, sensitive, headstrong and explosive as a Zeppelin, he was also off-the-scale talented. Produced by Gestüt Fuchs, one of Germany’s top studs, the stallion had been hothoused to jump at the highest level, achieving his first Olympic qualification at just seven. With his distinctive dappled-grey coat like filigree silver, pure white mane and flamboyant style, he’d already earned a fan club in Europe, a collective roar of outrage going up when he’d been sold six months ahead of the London Olympics for a record-breaking amount. Although his youth and volatility had kept him from selection at home, his qualification for the games was a golden ticket.

  Somewhat astonishingly, nineteen-year-old Prince Mishaal had an Olympic qualification of his own, achieved on a horse so experienced he could have taken a toddler round a World Cup track blindfold, but also so pensionable the veterinary team could no longer keep him legally sound. To continue his son’s Olympic dream, Mishaal’s father had not only bought the most hotly tipped showjumper in the world, but also the only rider who could keep the horse sane enough for a rookie to compete. It wasn’t a job Luca would normally have taken, however fat the cheque; if he hadn’t been carrying a big open wound in his heart, he’d be spending winter somewhere with unspoilt young horses to break and snow on the ground as crisp and crunchy as the crystals in the vodka bottle. But somehow, head spinning from hung-up calls and hangovers, he’d let himself be talked into it, hoping six months of baking heat might finally hang his heart out to dry.

  Instead, he found himself boiling over with exasperation, and knew getting drunk with pretty girls wasn’t the solution. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could rein in his temper with the reckless young prince, though certainly longer than Bechstein.

  Having worked with the stallion since he was an unbacked three-year-old, Luca knew the key to riding him was lightness, those pianist’s fingers leggerissimamente on the reins, seat-bones tucked beneath like coat-tails, the weight in the stirrups equally balanced between soft and sustain. But Prince Mishaal – who saw Luca as tuner and page-turner, hired to keep the sound sweet for the big concerto – only knew how to play ‘Chopsticks’ whilst bouncing on the piano stool like Elton John.

  The young prince’s relationship with Bechstein had been on a collision course from the start, Luca’s role conflicted as he was forced to watch horse and rider in discord – one as arrogant, unbalanced and hard-handed as the other was instinctive and knife-edge brilliant.

  ‘The two of them looked great to start with,’ Signe pointed out. ‘What’s gone wrong?’

  ‘The same thing as most relationships – they got to know one another better.’

  It was true that the stallion’s exuberance had thrilled the handsome young prince at first, throwing his new superhorse over fences fea
rlessly, accustomed to forgiving schoolmasters who made no more effort than necessary to clear them. It was kamikaze stuff, but they had won two Grand Prix classes in their first outings, the home press going wild as they predicted an Arab gold in London. Bechstein, who didn’t know how to lose, had never had a fence down in his life, no matter that he was being galloped at them like a jouster’s charger at an opponent’s lance.

  But the stallion had been confused and in shock from the start, relying on the Horsemaker to pick him up and put him right again each time. He was a strong, excitable horse and the more he was jabbed in the mouth and spurred in the sides, the hotter-headed he became.

  Away from the public eye, the wheels were quick to come off. At home, he was soon refusing to stand still for the boy to mount, then napping, rearing, twisting himself inside out to be rid of the devil on his back. Every day, Luca had to ride him in longer to settle him. And with each passing day, Luca had seen the horse pick up more of his rider’s aggressive tension. Jab, jab, jab went the reins, Bechstein now trussed in all manner of harsh tack like a BDSM gimp, his sides raw with spur marks, eyes blank with pain. As falls followed failure, Mishaal’s fear and anger had escalated, humiliation curdling spitefully. The prince’s new horse had gone from plaything to broken toy and it was inevitable that Bechstein would eventually throw a tantrum at a competition, as he had last week. The team line was that the horse had been stung by a bee just before his round, but Luca feared for next time. He didn’t doubt there would be a next time.

  Earlier that week the boy had been badly dragged in yet another fall in the school at home. Smashed against the kick boards so hard his ribs bruised, he’d cursed all manner of deadly oaths in Arabic, and Luca was certain he’d witnessed the ‘click’ moment when an animal makes man his foe: Bechstein, a horse who had only known the very best of handlers and most skilful of riders in his short life, hated the prince.

  In training today, the boy had been unable to get him to jump a single fence.