Springtime at Cherry Tree Cottage

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Cathy Woodman

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Maps

  Chapter One: A Fresh Start

  Chapter Two: Only the Horses

  Chapter Three: New Shoes

  Chapter Four: Irons in the Fire

  Chapter Five: Wet Shirts and Hidden Depths

  Chapter Six: Nailed it

  Chapter Seven: Why Walk When You Can Ride?

  Chapter Eight: The Healing Power of Horses

  Chapter Nine: In Your Arms

  Chapter Ten: Hammer, Anvil, Forge and Fire

  Chapter Eleven: The Cherry on the Cake

  Chapter Twelve: No Foot, No Horse

  Chapter Thirteen: The Way the Wind Blows

  Chapter Fourteen: Hammer and Tongs

  Chapter Fifteen: The Price of Fish

  Chapter Sixteen: St Dunstan and the Devil

  Chapter Seventeen: Nelson’s Last Stand

  Chapter Eighteen: My Kingdom for a Horse

  Chapter Nineteen: The Wrong End of the Stick

  Chapter Twenty: One-Trick Pony

  Chapter Twenty-One: Negotiate with a Stallion, Tell a Gelding, and Ask a Mare

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Life is a Bowl of Cherries

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Another Bite at the Cherry

  Copyright

  About the Book

  After years of training, horse-mad Flick has finally achieved her dream of becoming one of the few female blacksmiths in the country.

  Her first job is in Talyton St George. The little cottage on the green where she is staying is idyllic, and it feels like the fresh start she needs. But she soon finds she is having to work overtime to prove her abilities to the not-so-welcoming locals.

  One person very much on her side though is Robbie Salterton. He’s a bit of a local celebrity – a handsome stunt rider who does charity work in his spare time – and he seems to be going out of his way to look out for Flick. But is he just being friendly or does he see Flick as something more?

  Despite swearing off men, Flick can’t help wanting to find out . . .

  About the Author

  Cathy Woodman was a small-animal vet before turning to writing fiction. She won the Harry Bowling First Novel Award in 2002 and is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association. Springtime at Cherry Tree Cottage is the tenth book set in the fictional market town of Talyton St George in East Devon, where Cathy lived as a child. Cathy now lives with her two children, a cat and two Border Terriers in a village near Winchester, Hampshire.

  ALSO BY CATHY WOODMAN

  Trust Me, I’m a Vet

  Must Be Love

  The Sweetest Thing

  It’s a Vet’s Life

  The Village Vet

  Vets in Love

  Country Loving

  Follow Me Home

  Vets on Call

  In loving memory of Dr Brian Chadwick, geologist, bibliophile and wonderful dad

  Acknowledgements

  I should like to thank Laura Longrigg at MBA Literary Agents, and the team at Penguin Random House UK for their continuing enthusiasm and support for the Talyton St George books.

  I’m also very grateful to my family, some of whom have enjoyed our forays into the horsey world, some of whom have merely tolerated it! I wouldn’t have written this book without my experiences of owning and riding a variety of horses and ponies.

  Last, but not least, I’d like to mention Penny, Steve and Riley at Cherry Tree Stables for the inspiration for the title of this book.

  Chapter One

  A Fresh Start

  Christian Grey, eat your heart out. My horse is the original fifty shades and far more gorgeous. It’s true that I have a whip and spurs somewhere amongst my belongings, but I’ve never had any desire to use them. I’ve never loved anyone even half as much as my beautiful grey boy. When I’m with him my heart beats faster and my blood bubbles with happiness. I don’t have to pretend to be one of the lads at work, or make out that I’m having the time of my life in front of my ex, or act the perfect daughter to please my parents. I can be myself.

  I lean forwards in the saddle and stroke Rafa’s neck, running my fingers through his flaxen mane, which falls in waves down past his dappled shoulder. He smells of sweat, fly-spray and de-tangler, and his coat feels warm and slightly damp.

  I sit up straight and ride on, squinting in the rays of the early-evening sun that slant between the branches of the gnarled trees bordering the lane. The ancient oaks are unfurling their leaves and the blackthorn is frothing with blossom. It’s late March and my favourite time of year, when the weather is getting better and the days start drawing out, meaning there’s more opportunity to get out riding.

  At the top of the hill where the scent of wild garlic and farmyard starts to fill my nostrils, Rafa sidesteps a shadow. I take a tighter grip on the reins and push him forwards with the pressure of my calves. He breaks into a trot and I begin to relax again as he covers the ground, the sound of his feet muffled by the grass that’s growing lush and green between the stones and patches of tarmac.

  I bring him back to walk. He shies for a second time, snorting as if to say, ‘Scary monster alert. Let’s get the hell out of here.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ I say, spotting the offending plastic bag that’s drifting slowly across the ground in front of us. ‘You are such a wuss,’ I add lightly. That’s what he’s like, though. He doesn’t care about trucks, rattling trailers or tractors, but show him a crisp packet and it’s the end of the world.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ I take a firm hold. ‘There’s no need to be silly about it.’

  I focus on the scenery, trying to ignore the way his hindquarters are bunching up beneath me as he utters another snort, blowing air through his nose so hard that he makes us both jump.

  At the summit of the hill, the lane bends sharply one way then the other before hugging the contour of the slope on the way down the far side. There’s a bank of red earth to the right and a hedge to the left filled with hazel, pale yellow primroses and blue speedwell. I can hear the faint sound of church bells and water, a small torrent emerging from a culvert below the hedge where the ground falls away. In the distance I can see glimpses of a river and the market town of Talyton St George.

  When I hear the rumble of an approaching tractor, I decide to trot along to the next gateway to give it space to pass, but as we get closer, the scent of farmyard becomes more noxious. Rafa stops dead in the middle of the lane, his ears pricked, his nostrils flared and his head up like a giraffe. I make a clicking sound in my throat to ask him to move on, but he refuses to budge any way but sideways. As he starts to sidle up the bank, I give him a firm nudge in the ribs with my heels. He doesn’t respond so I lean across and snap a twig off a nearby hazel, using it to give him a tickle on the flank.

  I can hear the tractor moving closer, chugging up the hill. In desperation, I flick Rafa with the twig again, and with my legs flailing in best Pony Club fashion, we’re away, at least as far as the gate where he stops abruptly, sending me halfway up his neck. I slide back down into the saddle, trying to regain my stirrups. His heart is pounding loud and fast. He’s genuinely scared this time. He snorts for a third time. The echo, followed by a series of loud oinks, comes back from behind the hedge, and all is lost.

  He plunges forwards, unseating me so I’m clinging to his withers. I grab at his mane and I’m just about hanging on until he bucks and I lose my grip on his slippery tresses. He tips me off into the hedge beside the gate and bolts towards the tractor, the clatter of his hooves fading in
to the distance.

  Struggling to catch my breath, I extricate myself from the brambles in full view of an audience of sandy-coloured pigs. My burgundy sweat top is adorned with sticky buds and the knees of my cream jodhpurs are stained green. The screen on my mobile has cracked into little pieces, but I’m okay: my skull-cap is intact; no bones broken.

  Cursing the amount of de-tangler that I used on Rafa’s mane while getting him ready, I start to run after him, listening out for the sound of skidding wheels and the sickening crash, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the tractor appears and draws up alongside me. The driver, a middle-aged man in a red baseball cap, leans out of the cab.

  ‘You’re going to have to run faster than that, my lover. Running faster than the wind, he was,’ he calls in a broad Devon accent, dropping his aitches and rounding his vowels.

  I thank him – I’m not sure what for – and keep running down the hill until I reach a crossroads with a wooden signpost and a grassy triangle in the centre. Rafa has left a circle of hoof-prints, as if he paused for a mouthful of grass.

  I call his name repeatedly. There’s no sign of him, no clue as to which way he went. I’m really panicking now, agonising about what I’m going to find. He could be lying in the road with a broken leg for all I know. My lungs are raw, my muscles are burning and my feet are killing me. I can’t hear anything except a pulse of impending doom thudding in my ears.

  And then I catch sight of two horses, a black one and a grey, heading my way along the right fork at the crossroads. My heart floods with relief, and my face with embarrassment as the rider of the black horse moves closer. He halts just in front of me, and looks me up and down, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘I assume this is yours,’ he says, handing me Rafa’s reins.

  ‘Thank you for catching him,’ I say, still breathless. I check my horse’s legs, running my hands over his knees and fetlocks. There are no cuts or obvious bruises. He’s had a lucky escape.

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s fine.’ I look up. The rider of the horse is male, most definitely male, and in his mid-to late twenties. He sits tall in the saddle, with his long muscular legs in dark breeches and leather boots wrapped around his horse’s body, but it’s his shirt that really catches my eye. It’s flamboyant and rather ridiculous, made from cream-coloured cheesecloth with a ruffle down the front. He wears it with the top buttons unfastened, revealing the shadowy dip at the base of his neck and a generous view of the slab-like muscles of his chest. The sleeves are rolled up to show off his lean, tanned arms.

  ‘How about you?’ he asks. ‘You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’

  ‘You aren’t far wrong there, but I’m okay, thanks.’ I’m carrying my riding hat under one arm and my shattered mobile in the other hand. Aware that I must have one of the worst cases of hat-hair ever, I run my fingers through my short dark brown crop in a vain attempt to give it some body.

  ‘Are you sure? You’ve cut your lip.’

  I touch my mouth, tasting the metallic tang of blood.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ I try to make out his features, but his face is shaded by the peak of his hat; a helmet – like the polo players wear – not a skull-cap like mine.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He took a dislike to the pigs.’

  ‘It’s funny how some horses can’t stand them.’ The sunlight catches the rider’s face, revealing strong cheekbones, a clean-cut complexion and a wicked smile. I can’t help wondering if his long dark eyelashes might be enhanced in some way, and I’m pretty sure he’s wearing a touch of pearlescent eye shadow and some lip-stain.

  ‘It isn’t that funny,’ I say fiercely, sensing that perhaps, amid his concern for my health, this man who’s riding around the countryside pretending he’s Ross Poldark is laughing at me. There was a time when my friends and I would have found the whole idea of Rafa disappearing at full gallop without me hysterically funny too, but I start work tomorrow and I need to be in one piece.

  ‘I’m sorry. My name’s Robbie, Robbie Salterton.’

  ‘I’m Flick. It’s short for Felicity,’ I say, testing out my right knee as I look around for a convenient place from which to get back into the saddle.

  ‘You look as if you’ve taken quite a tumble,’ Robbie goes on as I lead Rafa towards the bank. ‘Are you sure it wouldn’t be safer to lead him home?’

  ‘No, really. I prefer to be on top.’ Immediately, I wish I could unsay what I’ve just said …

  ‘Oh, so do I,’ he says, his voice laced with humour and suggestion, as I turn Rafa to face the way we came from, as well as to hide the heat in my cheeks. ‘Let me give you a leg up.’ Robbie is on his feet and at my side, his horse standing quietly without restraint. Before I can argue that it isn’t strictly necessary, he’s in position, ready to take my lower leg in his hands.

  I take up the reins and bend my left knee.

  ‘On the count of three. One, two, three …’ Robbie propels me back into the saddle with seemingly effortless force, almost sending me off over the other side.

  I regain my seat with as much poise as I can muster and slip my feet into the stirrups. He vaults easily on to his horse’s back.

  ‘Thanks again,’ I say, as I’m planning a rapid escape to salvage the last remnants of my self-esteem. It’s all very well falling off now and then, but why did it have to go and happen in the proximity of this gorgeous, capable and well-spoken stranger? All I want to do now is get away to check my wounds.

  ‘Anytime,’ he calls over his shoulder as he rides off in the opposite direction. I notice how his horse has a loose shoe, making a double clink as its hoof touches the ground.

  Now, I should have thought ahead. Rafa’s coat is dark with sweat. He’s in an emotional state, and looking for reassurance and safety in numbers, so why on earth would he want to leave the other horse and return to face the pigs alone? When I ask him to walk on, he refuses, and I wish I’d hung on to the hazel stick. I growl at him and flick the loop of the reins against his neck, hoping that Robbie isn’t looking behind him, but he still won’t budge.

  There are times when I wonder if owning a horse is all it’s cracked up to be, and this is one of them. Horse and rider in perfect harmony. Not.

  I hear the sound of hooves and Robbie’s voice behind me.

  ‘I should have thought to offer you a lead.’ He chuckles. ‘Don’t say there’s no need for it – I’d hate to think of you standing out here all night.’

  I have no choice as he walks his horse up alongside Rafa, our stirrups clashing as we move along the lane.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘It’s no problem. I was riding what we call the square, which is really more of a circle. I can go back home either way.’ He pauses. ‘I haven’t seen you around here before. What brings you to Furzeworthy?’

  ‘Work.’ I try to get Rafa to leg-yield towards the hedge, but he’s like a limpet clinging to the other horse’s side.

  ‘Are you staying at Mel’s?’

  ‘That’s right. How did you guess?’ When I arrived at the B&B today, Louise – my new boss’s wife – told me the place was a hotbed of gossip, but I didn’t imagine that news travelled this fast.

  ‘Actually, I saw the horsebox outside when I was driving by earlier.’

  I glance towards my companion. He’s grinning.

  ‘I’m the farrier who’s taking on his round,’ I say, smiling back.

  ‘I see. Mel did mention that he was sorting out cover for when he goes into hospital for surgery on his back. I didn’t realise you were …’ He hesitates.

  ‘A woman?’ I finish for him.

  ‘I don’t mean to sound sexist. I’m not like that,’ he says, sounding somewhat bashful. ‘I’m just surprised. I don’t know why, when I’ve had a female vet and saddler before.’

  I bet you have, I think. Going on his good looks and confidence, I reckon Robbie’s the type who’s had many women.

  ‘This i
s the first time I’ve come across a female farrier,’ he continues.

  ‘There aren’t many of us about – not yet, anyway.’

  ‘I hope I haven’t offended you.’

  ‘Not in the slightest. It happens all the time.’ I smile again. ‘In fact, the most misogynistic clients I’ve come across have been women, and their attitude is more down to the fact they’re disappointed because I’m not some fit guy with potential, rather than that they don’t trust me to shoe their horses.’

  ‘I think you’re going to have an interesting time. Not in a bad way,’ he adds quickly, ‘but you know what horse people are like.’

  ‘The farrier I trained with says there are three types of personality. Type A, who are the stressy ones, type B, who are the laid-back characters, and type H, who are completely mad about their horses – the sort who always have hay in their pockets, buy nothing but corn oil and carrots at the supermarket, and spend most of their wages at the tack shop.’ I pause. ‘Your horse has a loose shoe, by the way.’

  ‘I have noticed,’ he says lightly. ‘Mel’s been finding it hard to keep up. Nelson’s overdue for shoeing.’

  ‘He’s lovely. He’s a Friesian, isn’t he?’ He’s tall and well built, like a carriage horse, and about 16.2 hands high – my height, the equivalent of five foot six at the withers, the point just in front of the saddle. He has a magnificent crest to his neck and a mane that’s almost as impressive as Rafa’s. His veins stand out from his gleaming black skin, as if he’s so full of life that it’s bursting to get out.

  I can hardly tear my eyes away from this double vision of masculinity, man and horse.

  ‘Yes, the Admirable Nelson – that’s his full name – is a Friesian stallion. He’s amazing, the best horse I’ve ever had.’ Robbie’s voice is filled with pride and affection as he reaches down to stroke his flank. ‘Yours is a Spanish horse, isn’t he?’

  ‘My parents kept an Andalusian stallion at stud.’ I have fond memories of the farm – I must have been the only child at school to think that it was perfectly normal to keep bags of colostrum next to the Mini Milks in the freezer. ‘They bred Rafa from one of their mares.’