I sat up in bed, sweat dripping off me. The mattress was damp, the outline of my body dark against the maroon sheets. Had I cried out in my sleep? I'd certainly screamed in real life when it happened.
Once again, I'd relived my husband's death, the moment seared into my mind like the climax of a horror movie. I'd have done anything to rewind the film.
Calm, Ash. Calm. I tried to slow my breathing as I listened for signs of movement in the house, but the only noise was a car on the road outside. Good, I hadn't woken Carol.
I rolled out of bed, my steps silent as I crossed to the window and looked out on the moonlit world. Sleep wouldn't come again that night, I knew from experience. It would just be me and my wayward thoughts until morning, and as always, my husband was on my mind.
Always a planner, he'd organised what would happen if one of us died young, but now I realised that had just been paperwork. I'd been left with his share in a security business, his house, his cars, even a fucking jet, but I'd also gained a gaping chasm in my chest, because a part of me died with him.
There were so many things I wished I'd said. Above all, I should have told him I loved him, really loved him, in the way I'd pretended not to for fear he wouldn't feel the same way. I'd have sold my soul to the devil to be held in my husband's arms one last time. He'd been the person who kept me sane, and now I'd lost my damn mind.
Lucifer wasn't dealing, though. My husband was gone, and I was still here.
Which meant I needed to plan. I couldn't risk going home yet, but with cash dwindling, getting a job was a priority. A job that wouldn't lead to my name popping up in any databases, and one that didn't require a reference.
That left two options: low-paid, manual work or something illegal. The latter would certainly pay better, but I didn't want to walk down that road at the moment. Not because I had a problem with breaking the law—the world ranged from black to white, and I'd always walked on the dark side—but because I didn't trust myself not to get caught, not with my head screwed up the way it was.
By morning, I'd set myself a time limit to start looking for work. One week. One week to get my head in order. One week of living in a bubble before I had to rejoin the real world. One week, and the clock was ticking.
Little did I know that luck would be on my side for once. Only two days had passed when Carol informed me of another outing.
"The horticultural society committee's meeting tomorrow morning, and Vera's making her chocolate fudge cake. You don't want to miss that."
"Could you bring me a slice back?"
She gave me a dirty look over her glasses.
"Okay, okay. I'll come."
What could I say? I was a sucker for dessert.
The village hall held the ubiquitous long table, a variety of old people, a tea urn, a table of plants with handwritten price tags, and—hallelujah—the promised chocolate cake.
Without Toby on my back, I was eating too much junk food, and I didn't have the energy to work it off. At this rate, I'd be straining at the seams of my newly purchased yoga pants and reciting the number of the local takeaway in my sleep. It was a slippery slope to the life of a couch potato, and I stood perilously close to the edge.
I took a seat next to Carol and tuned out as the conversation turned to gardening. My horticultural knowledge covered three areas—what I could eat to survive, which plants had healing properties, and those I could use to poison people. The characteristics of a prize-winning dahlia passed me by.
A huff from Carol brought me back to the present.
"Fenton Palmer doesn't know his aster from his elder."
The man at the head of the table sighed. "But he's agreed to sponsor the show, so we have to let him be on the judging panel. We've booked the hall, and now we just need to agree on the classes."
Oh dear. Eight voices got louder and louder as the committee began arguing. They must have been getting tips from the parish councillors, because nobody wanted to listen to anybody else, and they couldn't agree on anything.
While fascinating to watch, my nerves were wearing thin. If this discussion kept up, I'd miss lunch, and Carol had promised sticky toffee pudding for dessert. Fingers tapping, I waited for the next gap in the conversation, which took such a long time to appear I began to think the manned probe to Mars would arrive back sooner, and that hadn't even taken off yet, for crying out loud.
"Why don't you have a vote?" I asked. They looked at me like I'd grown another head, so I elaborated. "How about we put all the ideas on a list, and each one that gets six or more votes goes on the schedule?"
There were murmurs of assent from around the table.
"About bloody time someone came up with a sensible idea," a man wearing a tweed cap muttered. He looked as if he'd be more at home on a tractor.
We soon had the number of classes down to thirty-five, which everyone agreed was reasonable, and I looked at my watch. Eleven thirty. I just had time for another slice of cake before we went back to Carol's. And yes, it was damn good cake.
I was trying to balance my teacup and plate in one hand while I pulled out a chair with the other when the tweed-cap man sidled up to me.
"George," he said, sticking his hand out.
I gave up and put everything down on the table. "Ashlyn." I held out my hand. "Nice to meet you."
"I was wondering if you're going to be a permanent member of the committee? We could do with some younger people, especially ones who've got their heads screwed on straight and don't try to include a class for the potato that looks most like Elvis."
A genuine suggestion, and one that had garnered three votes.
"Afraid not. I'm staying with Carol at the moment, but I'm not sure how long for. I need to look for a job, and I doubt I'll find anything suitable near here."
"What kind of a job?"
"I'm not exactly sure. Maybe waitressing or bar work. Or cleaning. Something casual."
"Do you know anything about horses?"
Horses? As a matter of fact, I did. I had one back home in Virginia—just one more thing I was missing.
When I acquired him, I hadn't been planning to buy a horse. I'd been planning to buy a cold drink and a plane ticket to the Arctic, seeing as I was driving back to the airport from a meeting in southern Spain in heat so oppressive I thought my brain was going to melt out through my ears.
Traffic had slowed to a crawl as I drove past a livestock market, and when I slowly edged to the front of the queue, I saw what was causing the hold-up. A black horse going crazy in the middle of the road. Nostrils flaring, it stood up on its back legs, and the guy on the ground was struggling to hold onto the rope. The horse leapt sideways as two more swarthy men whacked it with plastic piping then it lashed out with its hooves. That drew forth a string of swear words and another beating.
Now, I may not have been shy with my fists, but I couldn't stand cruelty to animals. Nothing gave a man the right to take his frustrations out on an innocent creature like that.
The heat forgotten, I leapt out of my car and strode towards the little scene. As I got closer, I realised the horse was covered in scabs and scars, and that made my blood boil. No wonder the poor thing was sweating and showing the whites of its eyes.
The temptation to put all three men on the ground, or better still, six feet under it, was immense, but while there was no doubt in my mind I could have done it, that wouldn't have helped the horse. Getting myself arrested was never going to be constructive.
No, I used my wallet instead. After five minutes of "negotiation" and a liberal application of Euros, I was left at the side of the road holding a snapping horse on a rope as the men trundled off in their decrepit lorry.
A dozen phone calls later, I'd managed to find a sympathetic vet, and with the help of some tranquillisers and a lot of swearing, we got my new purchase onto a horse transporter. He lived at a rehabilitation yard in Spain for a few months, and when he'd healed up well enough, I took him home. The staff at the rehab place held a party when he left. I knew this because I saw the photos on Facebook. There was a good reason I'd christened my darling pony Satan.
In the first three months of ownership, I went through six grooms, and I'd begun to lose hope when I found an old cowboy called Dustin who understood him. Although my horse still had his moments, he mostly behaved himself. Right now, he lived in luxury at my place in Virginia with Dustin's mare to keep him company, and we'd shortened his name to Stan.
But that wasn't a story I could tell George.
"I know a little about horses. I took riding lessons when I was a kid and helped out at the local stables."
"Well, if you're interested, I'm looking for a groom to work at my stable yard. The last girl ran off with a bloke she met at the travelling fair without giving any notice, so I'm a person short."
"How much does it pay?"
"Only minimum wage, I'm afraid. Cash every Friday."
Sounded perfect. At least horses wouldn't ask questions about my state of mind or try to drag me along to the needlepoint club. I was sick of pasting on a fake smile from dawn to dusk.
"Can I come and take a look around?" I asked.
"I'm in all day tomorrow."
I set off on foot after breakfast the next morning, sheltering from the rain under a golf umbrella Carol lent me. George had given me directions, and as I reached the outskirts of the village, the houses got progressively bigger and more expensive.
The walk took twenty minutes, and the bottoms of my jeans were soaked through by the time I got there. Well-kept paddocks stretched into the distance on either side of the driveway, and the horses in them raised their heads to peer at me curiously as I trekked past.
"Where can I find George?" I asked a girl sweeping the stable yard.
She pointed at a house to the left then leaned on her broom as she watched me walk towards it.
The bell echoed, followed by the din of dogs barking inside. The sound made me miss my Doberman, Lucy, who I'd left back at home with Dustin. He always dog-sat when I was away, and he tended to spoil her. At least she'd be getting plenty of walks.
When the door swung open, an excited pack surrounded me, ranging from a tiny Yorkshire terrier up to a German shepherd with a huge tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. George appeared behind them, wearing the country uniform of cords, wellingtons, and a waxed jacket. All he needed was a shotgun and a brace of pheasants, and he could have stepped straight from the pages of Country Life magazine.
"I hope you're all right with dogs," he said.
Bit late if I wasn't.
"Yes, they're fine," I said, stifling a laugh as the Yorkie humped a chair leg.
"Come on, we can talk while I show you the yard."
George herded the dogs back inside and pulled the door shut, then motioned at me to follow him.
Hazelwood Farm was a livery yard, a hotel for horses if you like, and judging by the looks of the place, it had a five-star rating. I'd rather have slept in one of the stables than the dive I'd ended up in on my first night in London, at any rate.
George led me around, showing me where things were and asking me to demonstrate different tasks, none of which were taxing. How hard could it be to fill a bucket of water or clean out a stable? The yard was beautifully kept, split into three large barns, each with eight horses.
"Each girl looks after one barn. It's an early start to feed and muck out, then the horses get put to bed at five. You'd take it in turns with the other girls to do a late check," he said.
"What days would I work?"
"Monday to Friday, with a half-day over the weekend. I've got a couple of part-time teenagers who come in to do the rest on Saturday and Sunday."
"Is there any riding?"
"No, we have someone else who does that. You get a nice long lunch break. Would you be happy with that?"
"Sounds reasonable."
"The job's yours if you want it, then."
"It sounds like just what I'm looking for."
"Good, good. The accommodation's a bit basic, but I can pick up your belongings if you don't have a car. How soon can you start?" he asked.
Accommodation? Now, that was an unexpected bonus. It looked as if another of my problems had been solved. I gave him a smile, my first genuine one since I'd arrived in the country.
"I can start tomorrow if you like?"