Ibrahim had paused by a half-open door and was talking quietly to the inquisitive gelding who’d poked his head out of his stall. As far as Kate could tell, the visitor wasn’t speaking English but the horse seemed to understand him anyway and was nodding and holding his head sideways for a hard rub.

‘Shamus is Tippy’s—Dancing Tiptoes’s—older brother—full brother, doing well in local two-year-olds’ races.’

The young horse shifted his attention to Kate’s mother and nuzzled her neck as she explained.

‘You’ve tried him in the city?’ asked one of the entourage—the taller one who’d failed to hide his disdain.

Sally Andrews shook her head.

‘Since …’

She faltered and Kate, who knew exactly how huge a strain this meeting was on her mother, stepped in.

‘Since my father died two months ago, my mother hasn’t wanted to travel far,’ she said, speaking directly to the man who’d asked the question, meeting the challenge in his eyes that seemed to peer right into her soul. ‘And logistically it’s difficult. One of our stable hands was killed in the same accident, so we’re short-handed even with me here.’

The questioner’s eyes, dark as obsidian, studied her intently.

Suspiciously?

She shook off the tremor of unease his look had caused and concentrated on the main man—Ibrahim.

‘So, should I purchase Dancing Tiptoes and wish him to run in the best races, I will have to find another trainer?’ Ibrahim asked.

He was standing so close to Sally he must have seen her reaction, and noticed Kate reach out to steady her mother.

Obsidian Eyes certainly had; he missed nothing.

Which might explain, Kate decided, why he, of all the entourage, made her feel so uncomfortable.

‘Come and meet him,’ she said, determined to ignore the stranger. ‘There’s no point in discussing training arrangements if you don’t like the look of him.’

But who wouldn’t? she thought, and her gut clenched as the ramifications of losing Tippy spun in her head.

It was inevitable that Billy would be down in the paddock with Tippy, running alongside him as if they were a pair of the same species.

‘My son, Billy,’ Sally said, and Ibrahim nodded.

Kate, whose eyes had gone to Ibrahim’s face as soon as she saw Billy in the paddock, realised that the man had seen and understood a difference in Billy—seen, understood and accepted! An empathetic man!

Bother the man who was making her uncomfortable, Ibrahim was the boss. It was he who’d decide.

Sally’s whistle had brought Tippy to the fence, Billy following more slowly, his natural caution with strangers holding him back.

Or did he understand more about Tippy’s future than Kate and Sally realised?

Sally had thrust her hand into the capacious pockets of her trousers, but Ibrahim was faster, producing from the pocket in his immaculate pinstriped suit a small, rosy apple.

‘I may?’ he said to Sally, who nodded and tucked the sugar lumps back into her pocket.

Tippy studied the stranger almost as warily as Billy had, then threw his head back and snorted before lowering it to lip the apple delicately off the man’s hand.

‘He likes apples best of all.’ Billy had come gradually closer and now stood beside the horse, his too-thin face radiating the love he felt for the animal.

‘I do, too,’ Ibrahim said. ‘Where I live it is hard to grow apples, so when I come to your country I eat as many as possible.’

‘Where is it that you can’t grow apples?’

‘A place called Amberach, far across the sea. A very small place compared to Australia.’

‘Did you come here in a plane?’

Kate was aware of her mother’s tension returning. Once involved in a conversation, Billy could talk for hours. Should they cut him off?

She glanced at Ibrahim, who showed no sign of impatience—no sign of anything except, she rather thought, simple kindness.

‘Yes, I came on a plane.’

‘Next to horses I like planes best. Dad always said one day I could go on a plane with the horses, but Dad died, you know.’

‘Yes, I did know that,’ Ibrahim said gently, while Kate held her breath.

Please, don’t offer him a plane ride, especially if you don’t mean it.

But Ibrahim’s attention was back on the horse—or was he diverting Billy?

‘Would you run him again for me?’ Ibrahim asked, and Billy whistled to Tippy and the pair took off, Billy understanding what was needed and circling in the middle while Tippy raced around the paddock, his delight in movement lending wings to his feet.

‘A truly beautiful sight,’ Ibrahim murmured. He turned to one of his men—not the tall, disdainful one. ‘He is everything you said he was.’

The man nodded.

‘Would you like a cool drink or a cup of tea or coffee?’ Kate offered, trying to hide the excitement she was feeling, although she knew her mother would be more apprehensive than excited.

Selling Tippy was one thing—the money from the sale would save the stables—but keeping him to train—her mother’s long-held dream—was quite another.

‘First we might walk around a little, see the other horses, the training track and the hill run I’ve heard about. Dancing Tiptoes was bred here—the mare is here?’ Ibrahim replied.

‘In foal again, and with the other mares,’ Sally told him. ‘When they’re pregnant they seem to like the company. We’ll walk this way.’

She led the party, Ibrahim close behind her, Kate and the entourage bringing up the rear.

‘You’d already seen the horse?’ she said to the man beside her—the one to whom Ibrahim had turned earlier.

‘I was at your father’s funeral, then came back here with others,’ he said quietly. ‘I know it is late to be offering condolences but I am sorry for your loss.’

Kate thanked him and lagged behind, caught off guard by his sudden kindness. She remembered little of that terrible day beyond a blur of cars and people and a need to be strong for both her mother and Billy, yet being uselessly emotional all day.

In fact, it had been Billy who’d been strong for her, and for their mother.

Maybe he would understand more than they thought if Tippy was sold and moved to another trainer. Maybe he’d transfer his love to a new foal—

‘Ka-a-a-a-te!’

Her mother’s anguished cry brought her out of her reverie. Looking up, she realised the entourage was now some way ahead of her. But instinct had her running down towards the brood mares’ paddock, pushing through the phalanx of minders, seeing the taller man, eyes nearly swollen shut, red welts appearing on his face, pulling at his tie, his collar, trying to say something that sounded like ‘knife’.

‘He wants a knife,’ one of the men said, while Kate grabbed the man, trying to ease him to the ground, issuing orders as she did it.

‘Call an ambulance—emergency number is triple zero here—and you …’ she pointed to the closest ‘… run up to the stables and get the first-aid box. One of the stable hands will find it for you.’

The stricken man was still struggling to talk, pointing at his throat and making gargling noises.

‘What’s his name?’ she asked Ibrahim, who was looking so pale Kate feared she’d have two patients.

‘Fareed,’ Ibrahim whispered.

‘Don’t worry, he’ll be all right,’ Kate assured the older man, before turning back to her patient.

‘Okay, Fareed, I need you to relax. Lie right back, you’ll be all right.’

She’d fallen to her knees beside him as she spoke, straightening him out on the ground as best she could when he was still struggling, pushing at her and trying to talk.

‘Lie still, you big lunk,’ she yelled, and apparently shocked him into immobility. Seizing her chance, she tilted back his head in case CPR became necessary, automatically feeling for a pulse, counting his breaths, more gasps than breaths.

‘He was waving his hands then started gasping,’ Sally was explaining, but Kate had already found the tiny sting the bee had left behind, barely visible on the lobe of the man’s right ear.