Chapter 13
‘Gee up,’ Tom told the grey mare. ‘I have someone for you to meet.’ He led Fleur down the hill to where Harry and the little boy stood beside the stockyard with Clare. There was straw in Clare’s hair. She must have been collecting eggs, fossicking through the hay shed where Harry’s hens stubbornly continued to lay, instead of in their nest boxes in the chook house. The tousled look suited Clare – her windswept, shoulder-length bob both messy and stylish at the same time. He couldn’t help thinking it was how she’d look straight out of bed.
‘This is Fleur,’ said Tom, bringing the big horse to a halt. She nickered a greeting. Age had not detracted from the mare’s natural air of nobility and she arched her snow-white neck as proudly as if she was back in the show ring.
‘What is s
