Craic had planted again, head shooting up. A rustling from the trees beside them made him shoot sideways. Then he gave a loud, alarmed snort as Gill came thundering back down the track.

‘There you are!’ she hissed urgently, turning at speed like a polo player. ‘You owe me three suppers, Mo, it’s definitely the stallion. I just spotted them from the ridge. They’re still at the far side of the woods, keeping off the main tracks. I think we need to clear off.’

Picking up the urgency, Craic needed no more invitation, setting off at full tilt.

‘Oh feck,’ muttered Bridge, realising she had no brakes whatsoever. And they were heading straight for the woods.

*

Sitting on Beck felt phenomenal. Luca had forgotten the feeling of exaggerated, quick-thinking movement, a rocket engine one could only hope to control by building co-operation and confidence. He’d ridden thousands of horses in his lifetime, and only a very few of them possessed anything close to this purity of power.

‘I could watch you ride all day, Luca.’ Ronnie had been buttering him up from the moment they rode off the yard to keep him onside. ‘Didn’t I tell you he’d settle?’

‘Sure, he’s happy enough.’

He’d quickly learnt that as a boss Ronnie had fixed ideas about things, along with a short temper, impetuosity and a boundless enthusiasm. With no riding arena at the stud and the fields midwinter-slippery, her method was the old-fashioned one of getting on a raw horse and riding straight out at a brisk trot, sticking to hedged tracks and woodland so he had too much to think about to want to turn tail or escape into open country. Beck was unfit and unshod which also made him less inclined to bolt for home.

Despite his protests, in his heart, Luca had wanted to ride the horse again as much as she wanted him to.

On his toes and eager to go forwards, Beck remained amazingly light in the hand, all his disciplined German training still at Luca’s fingertips. Stiffer, admittedly, and understandably tense, but less argumentative than Luca had anticipated given all the bad riding he’d endured. It would be self-aggrandisement to imagine Beck remembered his rider after all these years, but Luca sensed he recognised the technique, the quietness of seat and contact.

But Luca was all too aware that he was sitting on a ticking bomb, and Ronnie’s unswerving belief in them both made him uncomfortable, as did any interest in Beck’s past.

‘Did you ride him much in Germany?’ She was still admiring them.

‘For four or five years on and off.’

‘Oh, I wish I’d seen that. I bet it was arena porn. No wonder he sold for so much.’

Upbeat and chatty, Ronnie was no fool, aware of the secrecy surrounding Beck’s sale to the Middle East and his inglorious return, that hurried, dust-storm cover-up. The deal to spare him the bullet made each answer Luca gave feel like a step along a ship’s plank. Luca knew his silence could be the only thing keeping Beck safe.