“Bwana Purves was not your father,” he allowed once I’d finished my story.
“No,” I said. “Nor yours.” Ruta might never fully grasp the choices I’d made, but we didn’t have to agree on everything to help each other. He had his own reasons for the long journey from the valley floor to my hut in Molo. “You have no idea how much I’ve needed your help, my friend. I didn’t know it myself until now.”
“I’m glad I’ve come. But tell me, is it always so cold here?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Then we will have to build a bigger fire, Beru.”
“We will,” I said. We already have.
Only fearlessness would do now, and with Ruta by my side, I could finally remember what that felt like. I boldly beat the bushes for horses to train, and by early April had a bright chestnut, thick-shouldered stud named Ruddygore as well as the Baron—and I had Wrack and Melton Pie back, too. The Carsdale-Lucks had sold them both to another owner who immediately trusted me a good deal more than they ever had. I was able to take them all with me when I left Molo for Nakuru—for this was how Ruta and I solved our housing dilemma. Molo was too cold and too forbidding, and so we made arrangements to lease space at the Nakuru racecourse, not far from Soysambu and territory I knew well. Ruta and his wife took over a small mud hut behind the main paddock. I had a bed on crates high up in the stands under a tented metal roof. There was a bale of hay for my bedside table, another bale for a chair, and yet I was immediately happy and at home there. Life seemed liveable again. Ruta and I had each other and a good race looming. What more was there?
I was most excited about Wrack. He’d had potential since the moment of his birth—perfect conformation and the very best lineage. But potential could turn or spoil, or even dissolve. The final shadings of any racehorse’s training were the most important strokes in the whole process. In a few months I’d watched him grow from a wilful and arrogant colt into something magnificent. Every muscle under his rippling chestnut coat spoke of power and grace. His legs were pistons and his body bright. He was built to run, and to win, and he knew it.
Wrack was our ticket—Ruta’s and mine. He would be the way we’d shoulder into this difficult world and make our mark.
—
One afternoon, a few weeks before the race meeting, I was in town sorting out a feed order and decided to drop in to D’s hotel. It had been more than a year since the last time I was there, that traumatic night when Jock had gone for D and smashed him to pieces. It wouldn’t have been hard to avoid the place altogether if I didn’t want the memories or the chance of running into D, but I was finally feeling ready to face him again and see where we stood. I tied Pegasus outside, brushed off my moccasins, and swatted at my hair, wondering if I was even half presentable. Inside, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light, but when I had my bearings, I saw that D wasn’t in the room at all. But Denys was—stretched out long in his chair with a drink, his dusty hat beside him. I think I stopped breathing.
“You look well, Beryl,” he said, when I’d made my way towards him, only half feeling my feet. “How have you been?”
There was already too much history between us, too many difficult choices. Losses I might never have words for. “Getting by,” I managed to say. “What about you?”
“About fair.” He blinked his hazel eyes, and as I took in the fact of him, I felt my heart shudder and spin as it always had when he was near. Perhaps it always would. “You were in London, I heard?”
“Yes.” I reached for the top of a chair to steady myself.
“I was away as well, for my mother’s funeral.”
“I’m so sorry, Denys.”
“It was her time, I suppose. Or maybe that’s just what people say.”
“And you’re working now?”
“Yes. I took out my first professional client a few months back. A pretty good fellow…American actually. He learned to use a machete and carried his own supplies.”
“See? I knew you could train all these spoiled Teddy Roosevelts to be reasonable.”
“I’m not so sure. Blix had one recently who insisted on bringing a piano along.”
“Oh, Blix. I miss him.” The words hung between us for a few moments like filaments or webbing. “How’s Karen?”
“She’s gone to Denmark to visit her mother, but by all reports she’s well.”
“Ah.” I fell silent, reading his face again. He’d had a lot of sun, but under the healthy colour, I could glimpse a hint of exhaustion, or maybe it was worry. “And Berkeley?”
“Berkeley’s taken a bad turn, I’m afraid. He was stuck in bed at Soysambu for a month when his heart nearly gave out there. The doctor told him not to move again, but he didn’t listen.”
“That sounds like Berkeley. Where is he now?”
“At home. I don’t know how much time he has.”
“Berkeley can’t die. I won’t allow it.”