Strawberry Stables - A Forever Promise

He went to the door and opened it. The door closed quietly. Bond walked across the room to the window and looked out over Green Park. For a moment he had a clear vision of the spare, elderly figure sitting back in his chair in the quiet office. Give the case to the FBI?

Bond knew M meant it, but he also knew how bitter it would be for M to have to ask Edgar Hoover to take a case over from the Secret Service and pick Britain's chestnuts out of the fire. The operative words in the memorandum were 'dangerous contact'. What constituted 'dangerous contact' would be a matter for Bond to decide. Compared with some of the opposition he had been up against, these hoodlums surely wouldn't count for much. Bond suddenly remembered the chunky, quartz-like face of Rufus B. Well, at any rate it could do no harm to try and get a look at this brother with the exotic name.

The name of a night-club waiter or an ice-cream vendor. But these people were like that. He glanced at his watch.

1. Swedish Vallhund (Comprehensive Owners Guide).
2. Dolphin Friendly.
3. Diamonds are Forever by Ian Fleming, from Project Gutenberg Canada?
4. Unlocking the Mystery of Memory?
5. Strawberry Stables Series in Order - Bobbi Kenady - FictionDB.
6. by Ian Fleming.
7. Memorias de un Dominicano del campo (Spanish Edition);

He looked round the room. On an impulse, he put his right hand under his coat and drew the. It was the new gun M had given him 'as a memento' after his last assignment, with a note in M's green ink that had said, You may need this. Bond walked over to the bed, snapped out the magazine, and pumped the single round in the chamber out on to the bedspread. He worked the action several times and sensed the tension on the trigger spring as he squeezed and fired the empty gun.

He pulled back the breech and verified that there was no dust round the pin which he had spent so many hours filing to a point, and he ran his hand down the blue barrel from the tip of which he had personally sawn the blunt foresight. Then he snapped the spare round back into the magazine, and the magazine into the taped butt of the thin gun, pumped the action for a last time, put up the safe and slipped the gun back under his coat. Bond put down the receiver. So here it was. He walked thoughtfully over to the window and looked out again across the green trees.

He felt a slight emptiness in the stomach, a sudden pang at cutting the painter with those green trees that were London in high summer, and a loneliness at the thought of the big building in Regent's Park, the fortress which would now be out of reach except to a call for help which he knew it would not be in him to make.

There was a knock on the door and, when a page came in for his bags, Bond followed him out of the room and along the corridor, and his mind was swept clean of everything except what waited at the mouth of the pipeline that lay open for him outside the swing-doors of the Ritz Hotel. It was a black Armstrong Siddeley Sapphire with red trade plates. It was not an invitation. Bond's two bags and his golf clubs were put in the back. He settled himself comfortably and, as they turned into Piccadilly, he examined the face of the driver.

All he could see was a hard, anonymous profile under a peaked cap. The eyes were concealed behind black sun goggles. The hands that expertly used the wheel and the gears wore leather gloves. Bond smiled and said nothing. He did as he was told. Very familiar with London traffic. No smell of tobacco.

No five o'clock shadow. Query shaves twice a day with electric razor. After the roundabout at the end of the Great West Road, the driver pulled in to the side. He opened the glove compartment and carefully removed six new Dunlop 65's in their black wrapping paper, and with the seals intact. Leaving the engine idling in neutral, he got out of the front seat and opened the rear door. Bond looked over his shoulder and watched the man unstrap the ball-pocket on his golf bag and, one by one, carefully add the six new balls to the miscellaneous old and new ones the pocket already contained.

Then, without a word, the man climbed back into the front seat and the drive continued. At London Airport, Bond unconcernedly went through the luggage and ticket routine, bought himself the Evening Standard , allowing his arm, as he put down his pennies, to brush against an attractive blonde in a tan travelling suit who was idly turning the pages of a magazine and, accompanied by the driver, followed his luggage through to the customs. The driver gave Bond an ironical salute.

The smudge of two eyes met his for a moment through the dark glass of the goggles and the lips narrowed in a thin smile. Just behind him, he heard Tiffany Case's low voice say "Thank you" to the fresh-faced young man, and a moment later she also came into the lounge and chose a seat between him and the door. Bond smiled to himself. It was where he would have chosen to sit if he had been tailing someone who might have second thoughts. Bond picked up his Evening Standard and casually examined the other passengers over the top of it.

The plane would be nearly full Bond had been too late to get a sleeping berth and he was relieved to see that among the forty people in the lounge there was not a face he recognized. Some miscellaneous English, two of the usual nuns who, Bond reflected, seemed always to be flying the Atlantic in the summer--Lourdes, perhaps--some nondescript Americans, mostly of the businessman type, two babies in arms to keep the passengers from sleeping, and a handful of indeterminate Europeans. A typical load, decided Bond, while admitting that if two of their number, himself and Tiffany Case, had their secrets, there was no reason why many of these dull people should not also be bound on strange missions.

Bond felt that he was being watched, but it was only the blank gaze of two of the passengers he had put down as American businessmen. Their eyes shifted casually away, and one of them, a man with a young face but prematurely white hair, said something to the other and they both got up, picked up their Stetsons, which, although it was summer, were encased in waterproof covers, and walked over to the bar.

Bond heard them order double brandies and water, and the second man, who was pale and fat, took a bottle of pills out of his pocket and swallowed one down with his brandy. The man would be a bad traveller. She picked up the telephone--to Flight Control, Bond supposed--and said "I have forty passengers in the Final Lounge". She waited for the okay and then put the telephone back and picked up the microphone.

The chief steward announced over the loudspeaker that the next stop would be Shannon, where they would dine, and that the flying time would be one hour and fifty minutes, and the great double-decker Stratocruiser rolled slowly out to the East-West runway. The aircraft trembled against its brakes as the Captain revved the four engines, one at a time, up to take-off speed, and through his window Bond watched the wing flaps being tested. Then the great plane turned slowly towards the setting sun, there was a jerk as the brakes were released and the grass on either side of the runway flattened as, gathering speed, the Monarch hurtled down the two miles of stressed concrete and rose into the west, aiming ultimately for another little strip of concrete carpet on the other side of the world.

Bond lit a cigarette and was settling himself with his book when the back of the reclining seat on the left of the pair in front of him was lowered sharply towards him. It was one of the two American businessmen, the fat one, lying slumped down with his safety belt still fastened round his stomach. His face was green and sweating.

He held a brief-case clutched across his chest and Bond could read the name on the visiting card inserted in the leather label tag. It said Mr W. Poor brute, thought Bond. He knows the plane is going to crash. He just hopes the men who pull him out of the wreckage will give him the right blood transfusion. To him this plane is nothing but a giant tube--full of anonymous deadweight, supported in the air by a handful of sparking plugs, and guided to its destination by a scrap of electricity. He has no faith in it, and no faith in safety statistics.

He is suffering the same fears he had as a small child--the fear of noise and the fear of falling. He won't even dare to go to the lavatory for fear he'll put his foot through the floor of the plane when he stands up. A silhouette broke the rays of the evening sun that filled the cabin and Bond glanced away from the man.

It was Tiffany Case. She walked past him to the stairs leading down to the cocktail lounge on the lower deck and disappeared. Bond would have liked to follow her. He turned again to his book and read a page without understanding a single word. He put the girl out of his mind and started the page again. Bond had read a quarter of the book when he felt his ears begin to block as the plane started its fifty-mile descent towards the western coastline of Ireland. No smoking" and there was the green-and-white searchlight of Shannon and the red and gold of the flare-path rushing towards them, and then the brilliant blue of the ground-lights between which the Stratocruiser trundled towards the unloading bay.

Steak and champagne for dinner, and the wonderful goblet of hot coffee laced with Irish whisky and topped with half an inch of thick cream. And then the Irish rigmarole coming over the loudspeaker in which only the words 'BOAC' and 'New York' were comprehensible, the translation into English, the last look at Europe, and they were climbing to 15, feet and heading for their next contact with the surface of the world, the radio beacons on the weather ships Jig and Charlie , marking time around their compass points somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic.

Bond slept well and awoke only as they were approaching the southern shores of Nova Scotia. He went forward to the wash-room and shaved, and gargled away the taste of a night of pressurized air, and then he went back to his seat between the lines of crumpled, stirring passengers and had his usual moment of exhilaration as the sun came up over the rim of the world and bathed the cabin in blood. Slowly, with the dawn, the plane came alive. Twenty thousand feet below, the houses began to show like grains of sugar spilt across a brown carpet.

Nothing moved on the earth's surface except a thin worm of smoke from a train, the straight white feather of a fishing boat's wake across an inlet, and the glint of chromium from a toy motor car caught in the sun; but Bond could almost see the sleeping humps under the bedclothes beginning to stir and, where there was a wisp of smoke rising into the still morning air, he could smell the coffee brewing in the kitchens. Breakfast came, that inappropriate assortment of foods that BOAC advertise as 'An English country house breakfast', and the chief steward came round with the US customs forms--Form No of the Treasury Department--and Bond read the small print: And then there were three hours when the plane hung dead-steady in the middle of the world, and only the patches of bright sunshine swaying slowly a few inches up and down the walls of the cabin gave a sense of motion.

But at last there was the great sprawl of Boston below them, and then the bold pattern of a clover-leaf on the New Jersey Turnpike, and Bond's ears began to block with the slow descent towards the pall of haze that was the suburbs of New York. There was the hiss and sickly smell of the insecticide bomb, the shrill hydraulic whine of the air-brakes and the landing-wheels being lowered, the dip of the plane's nose, the tearing bump of the tyres on the runway, the ugly roar as the screws were reversed to slow the plane for the entrance bay, the rumbling progress over the tired grass plain towards the tarmac apron, the clang of the hatch being opened, and they were there.

The customs officer, a paunchy good-living man with dark sweat marks at the armpits of his grey uniform shirt, sauntered lazily over from the Supervisor's desk to where Bond stood, his three pieces of luggage in front of him, under the letter B. Next door, under C, the girl took a packet of Parliaments out of her bag and put a cigarette between her lips. Bond heard several impatient clicks at the lighter, and the sharper snap as she put the lighter back in her bag and closed the fastening.

Bond felt aware of her watchfulness. He wished that her name began with Z so that she would not be so close. He came to the golf clubs. He paused with the stamp book in his hand. He looked up at Bond. Bond could have kicked himself for forgetting the Americanism. He gummed a blessed stamp on the side of the bag a few inches away from the richest haul of contraband that had ever been missed at Idlewild. He beckoned a porter and followed his bags across to the last hurdle, the Inspector at the door.

There was no pause. The man bent over, searched for the stamps, overstamped them and waved him through. It was a tall, hatchet-faced man with mud-coloured hair and mean eyes. He was wearing dark brown slacks and a coffee-coloured shirt. It was about the shape of a small-calibre automatic. These American gangsters were too obvious. They had read too many horror-comics and seen too many films. The car was a black Oldsmobile Sedan. Bond didn't wait to be told. He climbed into the front seat, leaving the disposal of his luggage in the back and the tipping of the porter to the man in brown.

When they had left the cheerless prairie of Idlewild and had merged into the stream of commuter traffic on the Van Wyck Parkway, he felt he ought to say something. The man glanced in his driving-mirror and pulled into the centre lane. For a quarter of a mile he busied himself with passing a bunch of slow-moving cars on the inside lanes. They came to an empty stretch of road.

Bond repeated his question. He was suddenly impatient with these people.

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He wondered how soon he would be able to throw some weight about. The prospect didn't look good. His job was to stay in the pipeline and follow it farther. Any sign of independence or non-co-operation and he would be discarded. He would have to make himself small and stay that way. He would just have to get used to the idea. They swept into up-town Manhattan and followed the river as far as the forties. The driver double-parked outside an inconspicuous doorway. Their destination was sandwiched between a grubby-looking shop selling costume jewellery and an elegant shop-front faced with black marble.

The silver italic lettering above the black marble entrance of the elegant shop-front was so discreet that if the name had not been in the back of Bond's mind he would not have been able to decipher it from where he sat. It said 'The House of Diamonds, Inc. As the car stopped, a man stepped off the pavement and sauntered round the car.

Bond got out and opened the rear door. Obediently Bond hauled out his suitcase. The driver reached in for the clubs and slammed the door of the car. The other man was already in the driver's seat and the car moved off into the traffic as Bond followed the driver across the sidewalk and through the inconspicuous door.

There was a man in a porter's lodge in the small hallway. As they came in, he looked up from the sports section of The News. He looked sharply at Bond. The driver, with Bond's clubs over his shoulder, waited for Bond beside the doors of an elevator across the hall. When Bond followed him inside, he pressed the button for the fourth floor and they rode up in silence.

They emerged into another small hallway. It contained two chairs, a table, a large brass spittoon and a smell of stale heat.

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They crossed the frayed carpet to a glass-fronted door and the driver knocked and walked through without waiting for an answer. Bond followed him and shut the door. A man with very bright red hair and a big peaceful moon-shaped face was sitting at a desk. There was a glass of milk in front of him. He stood up as they came in and Bond saw he was a hunchback. Bond didn't remember having seen a red-haired hunchback before.

He could imagine that the combination would be useful for frightening the small fry who worked for the gang. The hunchback moved slowly round the desk and over to where Bond was standing. He walked round Bond, making a show of examining him minutely from head to foot, and then he came and stood close in front of Bond and looked up into his face.

Bond looked impassively back into a pair of china eyes that were so empty and motionless that they might have been hired from a taxidermist. Bond had the feeling that he was being subjected to some sort of test. Casually he looked back at the hunchback, noting the big ears with rather exaggerated lobes, the dry red lips of the big half-open mouth, the almost complete absence of a neck, and the short powerful arms in the expensive yellow silk shirt, cut to make room for the barrel-like chest and its sharp hump.

I can see you are capable of it. Would you like to do more work for us? The hunchback gave a short squeal of laughter. He turned abruptly to the driver. Here"; he gave a quick shake of his right arm and held his open hand out to the driver. On it lay a double-bladed knife with a flat handle bound with adhesive tape. Bond recognized it as a throwing knife. He had to admit that the bit of legerdemain had been neatly executed. The hunchback walked away from Bond and back to his chair.

He sat down and picked up the glass of milk. He looked at it with distaste and swallowed the contents in two huge gulps. He looked at Bond as if for comment. His anger was transferred to the driver. Put those balls on the table where I can see what you're doing. The number on the ball is the centre of the plug. He stood up from the floor and put the six new balls on the desk. Five of them were still in their black wrapping. He took the sixth and turned it round in his fingers. Then he picked up the knife and dug its point into the cover of the ball and levered.

A half-inch circular section of the ball came away on the tip of the blade and he passed the ball across the desk to the hunchback, who tipped the contents, three uncut stones of ten to fifteen carats, on to the leather surface of the desk. The driver went on with his work until Bond counted eighteen stones on the table. Now get those goddam golf-sticks out of here and send the boy to the Astor with them and this guy's bags. Have them sent up to his room. Bond went over to a chair against the wall, pulled it over to face the hunchback across the desk and sat down.

He took a cigarette and lit it. The hunchback, who had been carefully watching Bond's movements, lowered his eyes to the untidy pile of diamonds in front of him. He poked them into a circle. Then he looked up at Bond. But the method of payment will be devised as much for your protection as for ours. There will be no direct payment. And you will understand why, Mr Bond, because you will have made pay-offs during your career of burglary.

It is very dangerous for a man suddenly to be flush with money. He talks about it.

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He throws it around. And if the cops catch up with him and ask him where it all came from he hasn't got an answer. Instead, we arrange for the guy to make the money on his own account. How much money have you got in your pocket? A perfectly respectable citizen whom you knew in England in when he was concerned with the disposal of Army surplus goods. Here is the money.

So I say to you 'Why not go and take a look at Saratoga? The meeting begins on Monday. And it pays off at least fives. Bond made no comment. So he was getting somewhere already--into the gangster world with a bang. The racing end of it. He looked across into the pale china eyes. It was impossible to tell whether they were receptive. They stared blankly back at him. But now for the big step through the cut-out. I like working for careful people. The china eyes shifted away from his and inched reflectively over Bond's face and shoulders as if the hunchback was judging horseflesh.

Then the man looked down at the circle of diamonds in front of him and carefully, thoughtfully, poked it into a square. At last the hunchback looked up at him again.

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You made no mistakes so far. You go on that way and keep your nose clean. Call me up after the race and I'll tell you what the word is. But, like I said, just take it easy and do what you're told. He shrugged his shoulders. I'm looking for a job. And you can tell your outfit that I'm not particular so long as the pay's good. For the first time the china eyes showed emotion. They looked hurt and angry and Bond wondered if he had overplayed.

This is my number. And write this down, too. But keep it to yourself or you may get your tongue cut out. Mile and a quarter for Three Year Olds. And put your money on just before the windows close. You'll shift the odds with that Grand of yours. Big horse with a blaze face and four white stockings. And play him to win. He turned right and walked slowly down towards Times Square. As he passed the handsome black marble frontage of the House of Diamonds, he stopped to examine the two discreet show-windows lined with dark blue velvet. In the centre of each there was just one piece of jewellery, an ear-ring consisting of a big pear-shaped diamond hanging from another perfect stone, circular and brilliant-cut.

Below each ear-ring there was a thin plate of yellow gold, in the shape of a visiting card with one edge turned down. On each plate was engraved the words Diamonds are Forever. He wondered which of his predecessors had smuggled those four diamonds into America. Bond sauntered on in search of an air-conditioned bar where he could get out of the heat and do some thinking. He was pleased with his interview. At least it hadn't been the brush-off he had more than half expected.

He was amused by the hunchback. There was something splendidly theatrical about him, and his vanity about the Spangled Mob was appealing. But he wasn't at all funny. Bond had walked for only a few minutes when it suddenly occurred to him that he was being followed. There was no evidence for it except a slight tingling of the scalp and an extra awareness of the people near him, but he had faith in his sixth sense and he at once stopped in front of the shop window he was passing and looked casually back along 46th Street.

Nothing but a lot of miscellaneous people moving slowly on the sidewalks, mostly on the same side as himself, the side that was sheltered from the sun. There was no sudden movement into a doorway, nobody casually wiping his face with a handkerchief to avoid recognition, nobody bending down to tie a shoelace. Bond examined the Swiss watches in his shop window and then turned and sauntered on. After a few yards he stopped again. He went on and turned right into the Avenue of the Americas, stopping in the first doorway, the entrance to a women's underwear store where a man in a tan suit with his back to him was examining the black lace pants on a particularly realistic dummy.

Bond turned and leant against a pillar and gazed lazily but watchfully out into the street. And then something gripped his pistol arm and a voice gnarled: Take it easy unless you want lead for lunch," and he felt something press into his back just above the kidneys. What was there familiar about that voice? Bond glanced down to see what was holding his right arm.

It was a steel hook. Well, if the man had only one arm! Like lightning he swivelled, bending sideways and bringing his left fist round in a flailing blow, low down. There was a smack as his fist was caught in the other man's left hand, and, at the same time as the contact telegraphed to Bond's mind that there could have been no gun, there came the well-remembered laugh and the lazy voice saying: The angels have got you. Bond straightened himself slowly and for a moment he could only gaze into the grinning hawk-like face of Felix Leiter with blank disbelief, his built-up tension slowly relaxing.

He looked with delight at the friend he had last seen as a cocoon of dirty bandages on a bloodstained bed in a Florida hotel, the American secret agent with whom he had shared so many adventures. And what the hell do you mean playing the bloody fool in this heat? And your conscience is so bad you didn't even know if you were going to get it from the cops or the gang.

Bond laughed and dodged the question. I just don't believe in odds as long as this. In fact, you can buy me lunch. You Texans are lousy with money. He slipped his steel hook into the right-hand pocket of his coat and took Bond's arm with his left hand. They moved out on to the street and Bond noticed that Leiter walked with a heavy limp.

Sardi's is just over the way. Leiter avoided the fashionable room at the famous actors' and writers' eating house and led Bond upstairs. His limp was more noticeable and he held on to the banisters. Bond made no comment, but when he left his friend at a corner table in the blessedly air-conditioned restaurant and went off to the wash-room to clean himself up, he added up his impressions. The right arm had gone, and the left leg, and there were imperceptible scars below the hairline above the right eye that suggested a good deal of grafting, but otherwise Leiter looked in good shape.

The grey eyes were undefeated, the shock of straw-coloured hair had no hint of grey in it, and there was none of the bitterness of a cripple in Leiter's face. But in their short walk there had been a hint of reticence in Leiter's manner and Bond felt this had something to do with him, Bond, and perhaps with Leiter's present activities. Certainly not, he thought as he walked across the room to join his friend, with Leiter's injuries. There was a medium dry Martini with a piece of lemon peel waiting for him.

Bond smiled at Leiter's memory and tasted it. It was excellent, but he didn't recognize the Vermouth. Beef, straight-cut across the bone. Roast and then broiled. He rapped on the table with his hook. What business have you got with my old friend Shady Tree? Bond finished his first Martini and lit a cigarette. He swivelled casually in his chair. The tables near them were empty. He turned back and faced the American.

Very nice about it and paid me off handsomely when I said I wanted an open-air life. So Pinkerton's made me a good offer. You know, 'The Eye that Never Sleeps' people. So now I'm just a 'door-basher'--private detective. But it's good fun. They're a nice crowd to work with, and one day I'll be able to retire with a pension and a presentation gold watch that goes green in summer.

As a matter of fact I'm in charge of their Race Gang squad--doping, crooked running, night-guards at the stables, all that sort of thing. Good job, and it takes you all over the country. He sipped his Martini reflectively. In fact, you're such a bad risk I'm crazy even to be having lunch with you. But I'll tell you why I was gumshoeing around Shady's neck of the woods this morning and maybe we can help each other.

Without involving our outfits, of course. But if it turns out our target's the same, there's no sense in getting wires crossed. If we're chasing the same hare, I'll be happy to run with you. Now," Bond looked quizzically at the Texan. And what might the running of this horse have to do with the security of the British Empire?

Pay-off for another job. He gave a low whistle of surprise. I'm only interested because Shy Smile is a ringer. The horse that's due to win on Tuesday won't be Shy Smile at all. Shy Smile wasn't even placed the last three times he ran. And anyway they've shot him. It'll be a very fast job called Pickapepper. Just by chance he's got a blaze face and four white stockings, too.

Big chestnut, and they've done a good job with his hooves and various other small points of difference. They've been getting this job ready for over a year. Out in the desert in Nevada, where the Spangs have some sort of a ranch. And are they going to clean up! And you can bet they'll plaster the country with their money just before the off. Can't fail to be better than Fives. More like Ten or Fifteen to One. They'll make a packet. Copied Shy Smile's marks on it. This tattoo gimmick is getting old fashioned. The word in Pinkerton's is that the Jockey Club are going to change to photos of the night eyes.

The English call them 'chestnuts'. Seems they're different on every horse. Like a man's fingerprints. But it'll be the same old story. They'll photo the night eyes on every racehorse in America and then find the gangs have dreamed up a way of altering them with acid. The cops never catch up with the robbers. I let him buy his way out of it with the details of this little caper. Going up to Saratoga on Sunday. Driving up, and I'll get you in at my dump. You've got to sleep somewhere. Better not be seen out together much, but we'll be able to meet up in the evenings.

What do you say? And now it's dam near two o'clock. Let's have some lunch and I'll tell you my end of the story. Over the past two years, Rayna Houston has watched her two dearest friends find true love, get Strawberry Stables - 2. Love Blossoms at Strawberry Stables again. This is the second book in the Strawberry Stables series.

Strawberry Stables - 3. The third book in the Strawberry Stables series reunites Jade Devareaux and Rory Carson after they had spent one steamy night together months earlier. Rory had fulfilled the fantasy Jade had wanted to experience before she settled into a mundane, res Cherished Moments follows Justine Travis as she continues to search for the elusive sparks that were ignited when she was just fifteen years old by her brother's college roommate.

No man has been able to re-create the yearnings that she experienced a Unbridled Passion chronicles the journey of Shana Simmons back to God and toward the future that He has set out for her. Shana Simmons' life has been on a roller coaster ride since her husband announced that he had met someone else and was moving out Unbridled Passion is a story of forbidden yet undeniable passion. Kelly Landon's life had been filled with trying to care for her ailing father, running a business and fitting in a college class once in a while.

Caleb Montgomery offers a little distr Strawberry Stables - 1. Strawberry Stables - A Forever Promise is the first book is the Strawberry Stables series that chronicles the stories of three couples as they fall in love at Strawberry Stables. As soon as Bethany Carson felt she was getting over the death of her fi Underlining the strength and confidence in the Victorian breeding and racing industry the Inglis VOBIS Gold Yearling Sale has recorded increases across the board for the fourth straight year.

The colt by Stryker is the second foal of a multiple winning Elvstroem mare Actrice and was offered through the draft of Three Bridges Thoroughbreds, which stand the Group 1 producing sire Stryker. He has a strong pedigree being out of Stravinsky mare that ran second in a Group 1 and he just looks like an early type. He has a great nature, good attitude and is really good bodied horse," said Shea Eden. For more information go to http: List of Lots with X-Rays. Printable Catalogue Index with Results. Export Index to Excel. Display Passed In Lots. Vendors upload photo of lot. Appointment of Agent Form.

View all lots Bowness Stud has in this sale. You will be redirected back to this lot page once you have logged in, or registered. All Aged Stakes Malaguerra formline challenged again. Owners and Breeders take centre stage at Caulfield Racecourse.