Reclaimed By The Powerful Sheikh

‘They are not boys, Mother.’

‘I have known them since you were all at university together. You were boys then, and you’ll always be boys to me.’

‘You went behind my back.’

‘Oh, Danyl, don’t be so dramatic.’ Her exasperation was undermined by an overly emphatic and somewhat disappointed sigh. ‘Veranchetti was already due to come to Ter’harn and you know that. I simply asked if they would be able to move up the date of their arrival for the New Year’s Day race to coincide with the gala, which is—in part—a celebration of your achievements.’

‘I would hardly call it my achievement, Mother,’ Danyl replied.

‘Ah, yes. The delightful Mason McAulty. She has yet to respond to our invitation.’

‘You invited Mason?’ If his mother noticed the ice-cool tone his voice had contained, she didn’t show it.

‘Yes, what a wonderful feat, winning all the three races in the Hanley Cup. Quite extraordinary. For a woman.’

Elizabeth Al Arain’s words settled into a buzzing sound between Danyl’s ears. Just Mason McAulty’s name was enough to short-circuit his perfectly ordered mind. Images of thick, dark brown hair curling over a sun-kissed shoulder haunted his mind, the echo of a laugh from ten years before, the slight smell of leather and hay...odd scents of feminine silk-soft skin. His mind reared back in self-defence and Danyl sought anger, fury, anything to cover over the moment of mental weakness her name had brought.

Mason McAulty.

He didn’t want her here. Not in Ter’harn, not in the palace. He hadn’t even wanted her to ride in the Hanley Cup for their syndicate the Winners’ Circle, but Dimitri Kyriakou and Antonio Arcuri had been quite taken with the idea. Two against one. Although, in all likelihood, if Danyl had refused they would have accepted his decision without question. But the moment she had approached them in the exclusive private members’ club in London...frankly he’d been shocked. Shocked enough to utter a few barbed comments Mason had refused to rise to. He’d tried to send her away, but the stubborn woman had refused. And most of all, that had been what had impressed the Winners’ Circle. That and the sheer audacity of what she’d suggested. Who could have imagined that she would deliver on her promise?

‘Well, I want her here,’ his mother pressed on. ‘You know how much I love horse racing. Where do you think you got the bug from?’

‘My investment in horses is not a “bug”.’

‘Danyl Nejem Al Arain, do not take that tone with me. What Mason McAulty has achieved is nothing short of miraculous. Coming first in each of the three legs of the Hanley Cup with horses from one syndicate—your syndicate—hasn’t been achieved in over thirty years. You know that, I know that, and I want to celebrate the success of such an incredible female jockey. I always thought that had I not been an actress—’

‘You would have liked to be a jockey, yes, I know. But you were too tall, Mother.’

Her response was a delicate sniff. ‘It didn’t stop me from being an excellent rider though. I want to meet this young woman, Danyl, and I want you to do whatever it takes to make it happen. Go to Australia in person, if you have to. Either way, consider it an early Christmas present.’

‘What are you really getting out of this, Mother?’ he asked, feeling his own eyes narrow in suspicion. But of what, he couldn’t quite place, or he didn’t want to.

‘Oh, darling, it will be the best party we’ve had here for years. With relationships on the borders doing so well, thanks to all your hard work, your father and I are thinking of stepping back further to allow you the room to take the throne.’

Danyl cast a look to his father, silently watching the conversation as if intuiting undercurrents that Danyl was missing.

‘But tradition dictates that you wait until I am married,’ he said, fury giving way to frustration as a series of efficiently arranged dates with poised princesses and highly capable CEOs filtered through the last few months of his memory. Anything to prevent the full impact of his mother’s words from raining down upon him. That he was finally going to ascend to the throne. That he would finally inherit the weight of responsibility for hundreds of centuries of culture and nearly three million people.

‘Well, as you are failing so spectacularly to produce such a fiancée,’ she said, gently mocking him, ‘we can’t wait for ever, can we? We’re not getting any younger, and it’s about time that I had my husband to myself for a change. Either way, that’s what I want. Mason at the party. And I want you to do whatever it takes to make that happen.’

* * *

The morning heat was already fierce and Mason was conscious of time running out. She needed to get a move on if she was to get to the outer fencing of their Australian farmland. She hitched up the saddle strap one hole tighter, threading it back through the buckle as Fool’s Fate shifted on his hooves. She gave the horse’s flank a reassuring pat and turned to find her father standing behind the saddlebags in the stable’s courtyard.

He looked as if he had aged ten years, rather than the eighteen months she’d been away. The grey at his temples now firmly white. The hollows beneath his eyes a darker shade of blue. She toned down the flare of frustration, the painful ache of sadness, knowing Fool’s Fate would pick up on her feelings if she vented them. Her father picked up one of the bags and held it out to her. She took it from him, turned back to the horse, strapping it to the saddle, and took the moment she needed.

Beyond the stables, the rolling emerald-coloured fields stretched out towards the mountains in the distance. Mountains that had always brought her a sense of peace, yet now seemed to loom as some kind of dark prophecy. Taking a deep breath, she felt the warm air fill her lungs, heavy and hot.

Joe McAulty had something on his mind. Not that he’d open his mouth to speak until he was ready. There was no rushing the man, never had been and never would be. So she just carried on packing the saddle bags until he said his piece.

Tent, phone, food, she mentally ticked off, coffee...

‘I didn’t think he’d call it in so soon.’

‘Pops, it can’t be helped.’ It was the same response she’d made when he’d first told her about the debt collection.

‘But after everything you did, the purses you won from the Hanley Cup...’

‘Pops, Mick died.’ She threw the words over her shoulder, shrugging off the swell of grief she felt for the neighbour who’d seemed an old coot even when she was a child. But her dad was a plain speaker, and emotions were an unknown language over which he stuttered and stumbled. ‘Who could have known that his son would call in the debt so soon? And yeah, if he hadn’t, the money from the wins might have kept us going for a couple of years, but something else might have come up.’

She finally allowed herself to turn around. Her father was kicking the dirt floor, keeping his focus on the spray of dust caught in the sun’s early rays.

‘The farm isn’t lost yet, Pops.’ Mason knew he felt responsible, but she couldn’t blame him. Not at all. ‘Our work, the work we do with the kids here, it’s as important to me as it is to you. And it’s expensive. Keeping all the horses, the counsellors, the physios, the staff... Mick’s son calling in the loan, it’s just something we have to deal with.’ Another something, she said to herself, to add to the many others. ‘Joe,’ she said, calling him by the same name all the other farmhands and staff used, finally getting his attention. ‘I’m not going to let this go without a fight. Especially to that trumped-up wannabe ranch owner.’

A sad smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. Defiance was something that ran through them both in spades. She turned back to the horse behind her, faking the need to check the bags one more time. ‘Perhaps I can find another syndicate to race for. There’ll be plenty of options after the Hanley Cup.’

‘I wouldn’t ask you to do that.’ Her father’s voice had lowered, full of the same gravel and grit he’d just kicked up off the floor.

‘It wasn’t that bad, Dad,’ she said, unable to turn to face him. He’d know. He’d raised her singlehandedly from the age of two. There wasn’t a secret she could keep, a lie she could tell, without him knowing. Racing again... No, it hadn’t been as bad as she’d thought. Riding Veranchetti had made her feel...alive. Complete in a way she hadn’t felt for years. But it had been hard. Had thrown up a lot of feelings. Ones that she needed to sort through. Which was why she had decided to go and fix the outposts herself.

Yes, riding had been tough, but Danyl? No. Her feelings about him hadn’t been hard to discern at all. She needed to stay away from him at all costs.

* * *

Mason swept up the tendrils of her long, dark hair into a band, allowing the cool breeze to nip at her hot neck, and watched the sun set between the giant clefts of the mountains bordering the Hunter River Valley, breathing in the first calm lungful of air she’d tasted in almost eighteen months. The ride out here had been incredible, the familiar dips and rises of the stunning horse farm she’d been lucky enough to grow up on as familiar as the wooden knots on the farmstead’s dining-room table.

Whenever she came out here, whenever she saw the sweeping stretches of the green valley, bordered by mountains that seemed like immoveable watchtowers guarding the land, she found herself wondering how her mother could have left. Her father had tried to explain over the years, the yearning for something more that her mother had felt. And perhaps, if Mason was honest with herself, she had felt a thread of that too when she’d gone to America to train as a jockey ten years ago. But home and wanting wasn’t at the end of a rainbow. It was at the start of it. She’d learned that lesson hard. Mason wouldn’t regret leaving, but she’d not be doing it again.

She brought the steaming hot mug to her lips and inhaled the scent of roasted coffee beans, wet earth and the wood near by. If she discerned the aroma of sweat, hay, manure, grief and something male she refused to acknowledge it—just her memory playing tricks again.

Before her, the night sky crept over the valley’s emerald patchwork quilt and it wouldn’t take long for it to reach behind her and the farm that she had tried so very hard to save. The money from the purses of the three races she’d won for the Winners’ Circle should have been enough. She stamped down the little voice in her heart that pleaded to know why it wasn’t. She had never been one for self-pity, and if she had? She would have been done for, long before now.

She’d have spoken to Mick’s son if she didn’t already know he was a bottom feeder, wanting to turn the farm next to theirs into prime real estate, wanting to sell off land that had been in his family for nearly seven generations to the highest bidder. Money. Why did it always come down to money?

What she and her father did on their farm, the way they helped troubled kids—kids with learning difficulties, kids that just needed something positive in their lives—interact with horses, learn to ride, to care for another living thing and be cared for in return...there was no price to put on that. When Pops had been forced to stay at the farm, to give up his training career to raise her after her mother had left, he’d seen a way to carry on what he loved most. His love for the horses was now spread through hundreds of children, teenagers and young adults. It might not have been a fix-all, it might not have helped every child that passed through the farm, but it had helped enough. The sheer delight at seeing a child, unable to look anyone in the eye, finally come out of themselves, transform into something brighter, the first smile, laugh, in what looked like years for some of them... That was worth it all.

But in order to continue they needed to expand. They needed more room for the counsellors, staff and children. They weren’t operating at a loss as such, but without increasing the scope of the business they wouldn’t survive either. And now with the loan? The purse money would go to that, and they were back at square one. Everything she’d done in the last eighteen months, wiped clean.

Coffee hit her stomach hard as Mason considered riding in another race. The last three had been physically and mentally challenging. Though reluctant to admit it, ten years made a difference to a body and the training had been intense. The first thing her dad had done when she’d returned to the farm after the race series was force-feed her enough food to feed an army. She hadn’t lost weight as much as body fat, all of it turning to enough muscle to harness the power of the two incredible horses she’d had for the Hanley Cup. Eighteen months of six day a weeks, morning and afternoon training, one meal days.

She might have left racing after what had happened ten years ago, but her body hadn’t forgotten, and there hadn’t been a day in between that she hadn’t been on a horse. Her father had said she’d been born to it, and the pride at the time...the pride before had been enough to make her want to fulfil that childhood dream of being Australia’s best jockey. Not best female jockey. Just best jockey.

And for a few moments, riding Veranchetti and Devil’s Advocate, she’d felt that need unfurl within her, the knowledge that she could make it happen, she could still have that childish dream and turn it into reality...it had been seductive, a whisper of what could be.

But to race again, for a different syndicate, on different horses? No. She knew that wasn’t an option. Neither was going back to the Winners’ Circle.

There had been plenty of journos just waiting to get her story, and the money they were offering for interviews and photoshoots would be worth considering if it hadn’t been those very same people who had destroyed her career first time round. The coffee turned bitter on her tongue, and she knew that even as a last resort she couldn’t do it. She had learnt enough about herself to respect the person she had become, and to honour that by being truthful and faithful and kind to herself. It might have taken these last ten years, but she wouldn’t sell herself out to the highest bidder.