TITLE: Christopher's Medal
GENRE: Contemporary Women's Fiction
"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 there. 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 his eyes were fixed on something that no human could see.
That serene and arrogant stare gave her goose pimples. She knew that she was looking at the winner of the night's five-furlong sprint.