Jumping to Conclusions Read Online Free Page A

riders cursing and panting around him, Charlie shot from the saddle and catapulted over Dragon Slayer's head.
    Instinctively relaxing his muscles, he hit the ground. The force knocked all the breath from him with a solar-plexus punch. Whatever had happened to his body, his brain was working at fever-pitch. Seven horses ahead of him; maybe the same number with him; that still left at least twenty to hurl themselves over the top of Valentine's ... Twenty odd horses to land on top of him ... Ten tons of death.
    Curling into the tightest ball, protecting his head with his arms, the noises were terrifying. The thunderous echo of the approaching cavalry charge was like a tidal roar. The shouted curses and laboured breathing were magnified a million times. Every set of crashing, slashing hooves landing inches away from him seemed determined to crush him.
    Charlie prayed. A faller now, on the leeward side of Valentine's, and it would be all over. Half a ton of rocket-propelled racehorse would break every bone in his body. It had happened like that to his father. An amateur steeplechase at Fairyhouse had meant that Barnaby Somerset, privileged only son complete with silver spoon, had lived what was left of his life in a wheelchair. Twenty years earlier, Charlie's paternal grandfather had been luckier. He'd been thrown during a Boxing Day meet and killed outright.
    Was that to be his fate, too? A million memories fast-forwarded through Charlie's brain. Was this like drowning? Past life played in a split-second of slow motion? A selective re-run of previous generations? Was this the third time that the Somerset breeding, the expensive education, the cosseted upbringing in a minor stately home, would lead to death by horse?
    Riding had been in his blood at birth; handed down at conception along with the fox-red hair and the classical bone-structure. It had made no difference how much his mother had begged him to do something different – become a barrister – a doctor ... He hadn't had the brains, anyway, and he had to ride. He had to. He'd been born to ride. And if he rode to his death – then wasn't that how it had been planned?
    Charlie sucked in gulps of air. It tasted of blood.
    Oh, God – Dragon Slayer? Was he all right? He'd die anyway if Dragon Slayer was fatally injured. He opened one eye, dreading the sight of the huge black flanks heaving, the long legs threshing, or worse ...
    Oh, thank Christ ... Nothing. There was nothing. Just grass and mud and a ton of scattered branches.
    It seemed like a lifetime later, or maybe a millisecond, Charlie wasn't sure. The drumbeat echo beneath him was growing fainter as the National field charged on towards the next fence. The banshee wail of the crowd was swelling again somewhere in the stratosphere. No other fallers ... Oh, thank you, God ...
    He tentatively moved his arms and legs. At least they were still there and seemed to be operational.
    'Okay, love?' A St John Ambulance lady – pretty, actually, despite the austere uniform, Charlie thought groggily – was bending over him. 'Walking wounded? Or do you need a stretcher?'
    'The horse?' Charlie winced. His face ached. His lips were still bleeding. 'My horse – he's all right?'
    'Just approaching the Chair I shouldn't wonder,' the St John Ambulance lady said, helping Charlie to his feet. 'Seems to enjoy the jumping much more now you're not on his back. He's fine, love. Now let's nip up into the meat wagon and get you back to the doc.'
    Charlie had bumped miserably back to the Aintree course doctor in silent humiliation.
    Kath Seaward was waiting for him outside the medical room door after his check-up.
    'What the fuck were you doing?'
    Charlie winced. His swollen lips made speaking difficult. 'I'm fine, thanks. No bones broken. No concussion. Passed fit to ride. How's Dragon Slayer?'
    'We're not talking here!' Kath jerked her head at the posse of press. 'Not bloody here!'
    The press, however, suddenly swooshed away in a jumble of