Racing Savannah (2 page)

On my way to Hillcrest to retrieve my riding gear, I skirt the stone wall that doubles as a fence bordering the property. Mom once told me, “They call them slave walls.” It had embarrassed me to hear Mom say something so un-PC, but when I confronted her, she said, “We can ignore history or we can learn from it. I choose to learn from it.”

What I wouldn’t give to hear her voice now.

She died when I was eleven after having been diagnosed with breast cancer the year before. It was stage four by the time the doctors caught it, but Mom fought hard. We didn’t have insurance, so we couldn’t afford the medical bills that skyrocketed to over $200K. Then Mom was suddenly buried…and Dad was buried under a mountain of debt. And without her, my whole world fell apart.

Dad worked as a groom for a wealthy horseman who was more interested in gambling than the racehorses themselves. Mr. Cates didn’t give a crap that his employees didn’t have insurance, and he worked his horses into the ground, racing them when they were injured with stress fractures or worse.

Shortly after my mother died, Dad said he needed my help with a sad mare named Moonshadow, who had been lethargic ever since her first foal had been weaned. Mr. Cates didn’t care that the horse was sad, but I did. I told my dad I would help her feel better again.

I rubbed the mare’s nose and searched her eyes. “I know how it feels to lose somebody too.”

I started riding Moonshadow nearly every day, and she taught me just how great at riding I am. She made me feel proud of myself. As soon as I got to know her, I told her all my secrets.

The first one?

“I love my dad, but I’m never gonna end up working for minimum wage like him. I want more.”

• • •

Back in Charles Town, Dad spent 99 percent of his time in the barns, and coming to Tennessee hasn’t changed that habit one bit. So I figure he must be in Greenbriar, where the Goodwins’ best horses live. It’s the fanciest barn I’ve ever seen; it has a digital contraption that keeps flies and mosquitoes at bay and classical music plays 24/7. I don’t even have an iPod, for crying out loud.

After grabbing my riding gear from Hillcrest, I tramp through mud on my way to Greenbriar, passing by two of the smaller barns. The Goodwins own about forty horses, but they have enough barn space to house over 1,200. Apparently they make a lot of their money renting stalls (studio apartments for horses) to Thoroughbred owners who use the Goodwin practice tracks to get ready for the real races on weekends. Mr. Goodwin keeps plenty of people on staff—veterinarians, farriers (blacksmiths) to fix horseshoes, farmers to work the hay, tons of grooms and exercise riders, and stall managers.

I arrive in front of Greenbriar to find Dad and a bunch of guys sitting in lawn chairs.

“What a bunch of lazy asses.”

Dad jumps to his feet as the other guys laugh at me. “It’s break time.” He draws me into his arms for a hug. I bury my nose in his shirt, inhaling his earthy smell of grass and leather and hay. My dad’s only thirty-six, and his height makes him look even younger.

When I pull away, I bounce on my tiptoes, scanning the group. “Is Gael around?”

“Gael? What do you need him for?”

“I want to talk to him about riding—”

That’s when this douche of a jockey comes strutting out of Greenbriar. Bryant Townsend is 5’1”—an inch taller than me, but I could take him.

“Forget the horse, Barrow. Come ride a cowboy,” he says, making rude gestures with his pelvis. What an ass. Dad looks like he might kill Bryant, but I hold him back—I can handle myself.

“Tell me when you see a real cowboy and I will.”

“Oooooooh,” the guys say, laughing.

“You’re all fired,” Dad says. He waves an arm at the guys, and they go back to talking horses and trucks, ignoring my father.

“Wow, what a great help you are, Dad.” He gives me a noogie, and I duck away. “Not the hair!” It takes forever to bind my red curls in a French braid.

It doesn’t surprise me that Dad fits right in here. He’s a good head groom—he knows when to be strict, but most of the time he’s relaxed, which keeps his staff relaxed, which ultimately keeps the horses calm. And he knows more about horses than anyone I know. I completely understand why Mr. Goodwin snatched him away from Charles Town.

“So how about some lunch?” Dad asks.

“Can you help me find Gael first?”

“We shouldn’t waste his time—”

“You don’t think I can get a job here, Dad?”

He inclines his head, smiling slightly. “It’s worth a try, I guess. But don’t get your hopes up. They got some of the best exercise boys I’ve ever seen.”

Exercise riders make $10 per horse per day giving super-fast horses their daily workouts. It’s way above minimum wage. If I can make more money by riding horses, I can make a better life for myself than working in a motel or gas station after high school.

So watch out Cedar Hill—here I come.

• • •

We find Gael in the Greenbriar pasture, inspecting a yearling’s hoof. Dad told me he’s a former jockey from Spain. He’s tiny, but he could still beat the crap out of most guys on this farm.

“Can I help you, Barrow?” Gael asks Dad, flashing a glance at me.

“I want to be an exercise rider,” I reply, pulling my gloves out of my back pocket. “And I’m trying out today.”

“Says who?” Gael asks.

“Says me.”

Dad shakes his head at the blue sky. “Generally you ask for a job interview, Shortcake.”

“Being an exercise rider is dangerous,” Gael says. “Just last month one died in Arizona after being thrown from a horse.”

“I’m always careful.” I hold up my protective vest and helmet. “And I have plenty of experience from working at the Charles Town Races in West Virginia.”

Gael’s eyes widen. “Good for you, drama mama.”

“Did you just call me drama mama?”

Gael ignores me. “Charles Town is a Grade 2 track. Those horses aren’t the fastest, craziest horses in the world. That’s what we got here. This is the big show.”

“I bet riding a Goodwin horse is safer than the ones I used to ride. It’s only truly dangerous to ride injured or weak horses, and you know the Goodwins have the best horses.”

Gael gives my dad a grin. “She knows her shit.”

“Of course she knows her shit. She’s a Barrow.” Dad squeezes my shoulder.

“May I try out? Sir?”

Dad gives me a nod, proud I remembered to ask for the job interview this time.

“Well…” Gael says. “I’m afraid it’s not my decision.”

“Dad, please,” I say.

“It’s not his call either,” Gael says.

“But the lead trainer always makes decisions when it comes to training horses. So whose decision is it?”

“Mine.”

I twirl around to find Jack Goodwin. He adjusts his cowboy hat and shoves his hands in his pockets, swaggering toward me with his hounds.

“What’s going on?” I ask Dad and Gael.

“You haven’t heard?” Jack uses his super serious voice, like when he discovered who I really am. “I’m running the farm this year.”

“What do you mean you’re running the farm?”

“It’s one of his father’s tests to get him ready to run the farm one day,” Gael mutters to me. “He made Jack learn to drive a truck when he was ten. And he started drawing up stud fee contracts when he was twelve.”

Hell, I’m happy I passed algebra II last year. And he has to run a farm?

“And you’re going to school too?” I ask Jack. “Senior year isn’t gonna be easy.”

“I’ll get it done.”

Talk about a busy schedule. Can he go to school, run the farm, sleep, and be stalked by this Abby Winchester girl all at once?

“So what’s the deal with me getting a tryout?” I ask.

“Jack wants me to clear all decisions with him,” Gael says, not sounding at all perturbed he has to take orders from a seventeen-year-old. “It’s up to him if you get one.”

“So can I try out? Sir?”

A tiny smirk appears on Jack’s face. “What are your qualifications?”

“Let’s see. I’ve been riding since I was four years old. I was an exercise rider at Charles Town Races. And oh yeah, I caught Star on foot this morning. Remember that?”

Jack’s smirk erupts into a full-blown grin.

“You caught Tennessee Star on foot?” Dad exclaims.

Gael looks from me to Jack. “What?”

“Just ’cause she caught Star once doesn’t mean she could handle him on the track,” Jack says, staring me down. “You want a job as an exercise rider? Then I want to see you ride Star.”

“No,” Dad says. “He bucks all his riders.”

“C’mon, please? I’ve been riding for thirteen years. You know I can do this!”

Dad throws his head back. “Could she at least ride another horse besides Star?”

Jack thinks for a sec. “Let’s see her ride Mystic Minerva. But I reserve the right to see her ride Star before I make a decision.”

Why is he so interested in me riding Star?

Dad snaps and points at a tall groom with a mess of floppy brown hair who’s been eavesdropping. “Get Minerva saddled up, Whitfield.”

“Townsend,” Gael barks. “Get on Lucky Strikes and take him around the track a few times. I want you to show Savannah how the tryout will work.” Townsend goes with another groom to get Lucky Strikes out of his stall.

While waiting, Jack squats and scratches his dogs’ ears, muttering to them, “You stinky dogs, you. You’re handsome devils, and, Athena, you’re a beautiful girl. Give me a kiss.” The dog licks and slobbers on his face. He peeks up at me a few times, but I tighten my gloves and pretend not to notice him.

Several minutes later, the groom named Whitfield reappears with Minerva. She’s a chestnut, about sixteen hands high, and might be the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen.

“She’s a great horse,” Whitfield says. “She’s raced in fifty-three races. She’s won eleven, and placed or shown in thirty-five.”

She bends down to scratch her nose on her knee.

“Come on, pretty girl,” I whisper to her. “Help me through this.”

• • •

I’m standing in the clocker’s tower with Gael, Dad, and Jack, watching Bryant Townsend breeze around the track atop Lucky Strikes, one of Mr. Goodwin’s prized horses. The stallion won the Preakness three years ago.

“That’s complete shit, Townsend! Complete shit! You can do better than that!” Gael is five feet tall, but when he yells, he might as well be the Hulk.

Townsend finishes seven furlongs (nearly a mile) in 1:35. That’s insanely fast. It’s like he was riding a rocket, not a Thoroughbred.

And Gael thinks that’s complete shit?

Townsend may never learn how to talk to a girl, but he knows what he’s doing on the racetrack. I take a deep, rattled breath and tighten my gloves. I can do this.

Gael turns to me and claps. “Your turn.”

I jog over to Minerva. The mare smells of sweat and liniment, and she seems relaxed, flicking her ears at me. I secure my helmet, goggles, and vest before getting a leg up from the groom to mount.

“Thanks, Whitfield.”

“It’s Rory,” he says.

“That’s a girl’s name,” I tease.

“And being an exercise boy is a man’s job,” Rory snaps back. We smile at each other.

Weaving the reins between my pinky and ring fingers, I squeeze her flanks with both heels to get her moving. I follow the horse’s movements, posting on her back, flowing with her body. Minerva knows racing is what she’s all about—her graceful gait is measured and sure-footed. Heck, Minerva could probably train exercise riders herself, she’s such a professional.

If I get the job, I wouldn’t be the first female exercise rider at Cedar Hill—Dad told me two other women in their twenties work here every day, but I’m still enough of a novelty that a lot of the staff have stopped working to watch.

I steer Minerva out onto the track and wait for Gael’s signal. He raises a hand and I use my outside leg to urge Minerva into a canter, warming her up over the course of a lap. The sound of her hooves relaxes my muscles and the trip is so smooth I feel like I’m riding a surfboard over gentle ocean waves.

When I pass the clocker’s tower for the second time, I take off and we fly around the track. At the first turn, I urge the horse faster and into a breeze.

“Good job, girl!” I yell, as dirt splatters onto my goggles and face.

On the final turn, Minerva jerks her head to the side and I have to hold on to her reins as tight as I can, making sure she doesn’t ride off the track and straight into the wild blue yonder. Getting her back under control makes us slow down and adds seconds onto my time. God. Do Jack and Gael think I’m complete shit?

As I cross the finish line, I pump my fist and whoop, glad I’ve shown what I can do. Even if I don’t get the job, I tried my damned hardest. I pat Minerva’s neck and brush her hair, whispering how beautiful she is as she whinnies and slows to a canter.

After cooling down, I dismount, wipe the dirt off my face, hand the horse off to Rory, and go face the music.

“So what’s the story?” I say.

“I’d say she’s got what it takes to start working,” Gael says, cleaning his sunglasses on his shirt. “What do you say we get her started on Monday, Jack?”

“No,” Jack says, and my heart plummets to the ground. “She’s not starting on Monday.”

“No?” I whisper.

A sly grin sweeps across his face. “No. I want you to start tomorrow, at River Downs in Cincinnati.” He turns to face Gael and my father. “She’ll warm up Star before the race. Then I’ll decide if she gets the job or not.”

“But,” Dad starts, until Jack raises a hand.

“She’ll wear a helmet and vest, and I know she’ll take every precaution to keep herself safe. She says she’s been around horses her whole life—let’s see if she’s ready for the next level.”

“She’s not ready to ride Star,” Dad says. “That horse doesn’t want anybody riding him.”

“She handled him well today,” Jack says. “She kept him calm, which none of the rest of us seem to know how to do. That’s what he needs most before a race. And if the horse ends up liking her, then I want her taking care of him. Understand?”

Dad’s not the kind of guy to take orders from teenage boys, but Jack moves and speaks with authority. Dad nods once.

“Thank you,” I say to them, bouncing on my toes.