BEFORE the horse came to a halt, Cole was swinging himself from the saddle. The impact jolted his old bones and he winced, cursing himself for being so dismissive of his aches and pains. There was nothing he could do about the fact that he was getting older. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent a prolonged time in the saddle, but he needed to remember because the physical effort brought agony to his muscles and limbs. Right now, he needed to focus so, gritting his teeth, he stretched out his back, put the pain out of his mind and went through the door of Doc Wycliffe’s surgery.
“What can I do for you, Reuben?” came the shrill voice of Mrs Nelson, the receptionist, who had taken up her usual defensive position behind her desk. A small shrew of a woman, she was nevertheless formida
