Still smiling, Luca sensed an exception.

‘I had a ring round when Ron said you were coming here. She’s always lousy at chasing up references.’

‘Fine by me.’ He waited.

‘You sure as hell have pissed off the Flying Maple Leaf.’ Blair clicked his tongue, drawing in a pointed breath.

‘Seems so.’ His old boss in Canada had even called the stud here to say that he’d shoot him if he ever came back.

‘Says you let him down badly, that you were like a son to him then threw it all back in his face.’

‘I worked my full contract. Didn’t miss a day.’

‘Christ alone knows how you stuck it out, mate. The man’s a fucking sadist.’

Luca looked at the craggy face in surprise.

‘You had an affair with Maple Leaf’s daughter, yeah?’

Luca sucked his teeth. More than that. A decade more than that. ‘Yup.’

‘Mate, I wouldn’t ride one of that man’s horses without his written permission, let alone a member of his family. How come you’re even still alive?’

‘I ride too well to kill.’

With a soft laugh, Blair clicked his tongue again, his eyes hardening. ‘Not if you let Ronnie down, you don’t.’ He thrust his hand out again.

‘Understood.’ The Claddagh took another pasting.

‘I’m glad we’ve talked.’ Blair turned away, squinting at the blackening horizon, gaze scanning the fields. ‘I didn’t think I’d like you, mate, but I’ve never heard old Maple Leaf so mad. Made my day. Worked for the crazy bastard myself when I was just starting out. Takes a brave man to defy him.’

Luca smiled despite himself.

‘You still hung up on the girl, mate?’

The truth was still somewhere in between, hung out to dry, a slow crucifixion.

‘You could say that.’ It was as close to it as he could venture. And it satisfied Blair, who slapped him on the back then set off towards a wind-scudded field in which a group of woolly youngsters were huddled together by the feeder, one golden deserter charging up and down the far fence showing off to the older horses in the neighbouring field.

‘Now come and tell me how I get Ronnie to sell me a leg of this little colt!’

*

‘I don’t even remember your name,’ Pax whispered gratefully, a moustache nuzzling her neck, ‘but I think I love you. Thank you. I must go.’

Lester’s cob stood stoically for a farewell hug, far too well-mannered to search her pockets for treats, although unable to resist ramming his cheekbones against her arms for a thorough face rub, hay slobber scatter-gunning.

Hurrying out, Knott stumbling sleepy-eyed after her from his straw nest, Pax knew she’d be late if she didn’t leap straight in her car like Daisy Duke. She’d just have to brazen out the mad-haired, hay-scattered, red-eyed look as part of the act. As she sprinted across the yard, the two stallions trumpeted her along in stereo, and she felt infinitely cheered. The comfort of horses. It was almost better than vodka. Almost.