Dark Horse by Honey Brown Page A

nodded. ‘That does hit the spot.’
    ‘You’re not a local then?’
    He shook his head. ‘Not Lauriston.’
    ‘But nearby?’
    ‘Royden.’
    ‘I grew up in Royden.’
    ‘I’ve only just moved back there.’
    ‘You come from there?’
    ‘For it being my hometown, I haven’t spent that much time there. My parents live out of town a bit.’
    ‘Oh, okay. What are their names? I probably know them.’
    ‘They keep pretty much to themselves.’
    ‘What school did you go to?’
    ‘I didn’t go local.’
    ‘My parents teach at St Andrews. That’s where I went to school.’
    ‘Yep, I know it.’
    ‘My family name is Lehman.’
    ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’
    Sarah quietly clucked her tongue. She tossed up for a moment whether or not to plough on trying for information.
    ‘Are you hungry?’ she said instead, sticking with the casual tack. ‘I was heating some stew.’ She moved forward to sit on the edge of her chair and returned the pot of food to the hotplate. ‘The kettle might take a little while. This’ll heat up quicker. More whiskey?’
    ‘Better eat first. Don’t wanna get hammered.’
    ‘I was thinking I might.’
    After reheating the stew, they shared it, two spoons dipped in the pot, not bothering with plates. Camping swept normal customs under the carpet at the best of times let alone in these extremes. He kept glancing over at her mare. Tansy was gnawing the railing, her head low, ears back, neck stretched out, body long and indefinite in the dark, her menacing shape accompanied with biting, grinding sounds. She seemed to be hell bent on doing all she could to freak the guy out.
    ‘What’s your horse’s name?’
    ‘Tansy.’
    Colour was returning to his cheeks. His lips were turning from blue to pinkish-red. Dirty smears on his face looked as though they’d been carefully applied to make him appear battle weary and war-torn. There was a smudge on his forehead and a splash of mud on his temple. The creases either side of his nostrils were dark with grime. His eye colour remained bleached green. Now that he was warmer, fed, Sarah waited for his questions. Surely he’d have to ask if she had found a way to raise the alarm? And whether or not people would report her missing. He’d have to want to know her Where’s and Why’s and How’s and When’s?
    Sarah poured a few decent fingers of alcohol into her own cup. Like a chaser to the liquor, a fresh surge of tiredness spread through her limbs once she’d downed the drink.
    ‘Officially the first Christmas I’ve not received a gift,’ he said lifting his drink to Sarah’s before taking his second shot.
    Sarah lifted her cup, even though it was empty. ‘That’s something to celebrate. No crappy photo frames, no ugly ties.’
    Perhaps their avoidance of real topics spoke more of the day than other conversation would have. Sarah put aside her cup and leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes. He didn’t seem dangerous. There was no sense of treachery, or lechery, about him. And that would have to do. Parts of her brain must have been on high alert forming these conclusions though, working overtime sussing him out: she could picture his face clearly in her mind’s eye. He had thin lips. The majority of his expressiveness was in his eyes. She could see his hands – calluses on his fingers, old nicks and cuts, short thick nails, strong labourer’s hands – and sinewy muscles in his forearms, not the type of muscle that came from a gym membership. She could picture his tattoo, his hairless chest, flat pecs, and those abs that did come from a gym membership.
    She heard him move in his chair.
    He must have been checking the time. ‘It’s almost over too. Nearly midnight.’
    Sarah didn’t remember seeing a watch on his wrist. Her eyes opened. He’d relaxed back into his chair. The cargos were still bunched protectively under his chair. Sarah realised it was her wristwatch he’d leaned over and read. Taking the time from her like