Racing Savannah (3 page)

“Don’t thank me,” Jack says. “Just figure out how to keep Star calm. He needs a win bad.”

“Ahem.” We all turn to find Mr. Goodwin standing there with an eyebrow raised. “I didn’t realize it was happy hour already.”

Jack steps up to his father. “I might hire Savannah as an exercise rider.”

Mr. Goodwin stares me down. “What?”

“She had an excellent tryout, and like I told you earlier, she caught Star on foot. Maybe she can figure out how to handle him.”

“Savannah might be a good hand in the barns. It’s probably best to assign her there,” Mr. Goodwin says, and I shake my head quickly. I can’t lose this opportunity! I can’t get stuck working a crappy job after I graduate high school.

“I’m trying to shore up my investment with Star,” Jack tells his father in a strong voice. “If your exercise boys can’t control him, I’ll find one who will.”

A smile begins to form on Mr. Goodwin’s face. “All right then,” he says and claps Jack on the back. “You’re the boss.”

“We’ll talk after Star’s race tomorrow,” Jack tells me.

I jump into my dad’s arms and hug him hard. “Please let me do this. Please.”

“Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

I pull away from Dad to find Jack smiling at me with no evidence of a smirk. Mr. Goodwin sees his son’s smile too, and his expression grows darker. “Jack, shouldn’t you be hitching the trailer so you can take Strawberry Fields to Kentucky?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you call Abby Winchester?”

Jack rubs the back of his neck. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

Jack walks off with his father, not looking back. Even though he’s supposedly the acting owner, it seems that Jack isn’t completely in charge of everything.

Does his father control his every move?

After my tryout, Dad opens the door to Hillcrest. It’s the middle of the day on a Saturday, so many of the maids, cooks, gardeners, and horsemen are hard at work. Still, a few people are watching TV or reading the paper in the large common area, which is filled with comfy couches and squishy chairs. Two younger boys are huddled together over a comic book. Fifteen people live in Hillcrest, hence my sudden-onset claustrophobia.

The second I cross into the kitchen, She Who Must Not Be Named is all over me, Mom-style. Must be the hormones. Cindy hugs me long and hard, and I get a whiff of apple shampoo. Her new blue maid’s uniform stretches over her rounded stomach; my little brother or sister is growing in there.

She’s nearly five months pregnant. Dad was really apologetic and embarrassed this happened, considering it’s just gonna make things harder on us. He stayed single until about a year and a half ago when he started seeing Cindy, who’s twenty-eight. She’s nice enough, I guess, but I don’t think of her as my mom.

I’m still pissed she got pregnant—it’s not like they’re married…or that we have the money for this. In a way, it’s a good thing we left West Virginia, because at least here we get free housing. Maybe now Dad will have more money to spend on baby clothes and insurance and stuff. I may not like the situation, but I sure want the kid to have a better life than I did growing up.

Cindy brings my hand to her stomach. “He’s real active today.” I can’t help but smile when I feel the baby moving.

“Wow,” I say. “If it’s a boy, we should name him Hercules.”

“We are not naming the baby Hercules,” Cindy says.

“How about Zeus then?” Dad asks.

“That sounds like a name Jack Goodwin would give one of his hounds,” Cindy replies. “I heard one of his dogs is named Athena and one is Thor. He also let his little sister name one of his dogs Jasper, after the
Twilight
character.”

“I think you should name the baby Yvonne,” Yvonne says, sewing a man’s shirt at the table. The Goodwins’ Laundry Dictator wears her gray hair in a bun and her maid’s uniform miraculously doesn’t have a single wrinkle. She glances up, sees my clothes are splattered with dirt, and leaps to her feet as if she’s twenty years old, not sixty.

“Get those clothes off, girl. Gotta get them in the wash before a stain sets.”

“It’s okay, I can do—” I start to say, but Yvonne gives me a death glare.

“Don’t you dare go near my laundry room.” I smile at the thought of Yvonne standing in front of a laundry room door, holding a battle axe, ready to fight off any intruders who want to do a load of whites.

“I know how to wash my own clothes,” I say.

Yvonne wags a finger in my face. “One time I found Mr. Goodwin in my laundry room teaching Master Jack how to wash colors, and after I got done yelling at those boys, they looked like I’d caught one of them doing the nasty in the backseat of a car. They probably
wished
I’d caught them doing that.” She grumbles, “Mr. Goodwin claimed he was trying to teach Jack an ‘essential life lesson.’ Sheesh!”

Dad cracks up. “Doing the nasty.”

“Gross,” I say. I never want to hear my dad say “doing the nasty” again.

“The moral of the story is
stay
out
of
my
laundry
room
,” Yvonne goes on.

“But laundry
is
an essential life lesson,” I say.

Dad laughs, biting his knuckle. “Doing the nasty.”

Yvonne wags her finger at me. “You let me handle the laundry and you go eat a ham sandwich.” She points her finger at Dad. “Danny, you see the bones on your girl? She looks like she’s never eaten before.”

“Who wants lunch?” Cindy interrupts, as a grumbling Yvonne returns to sewing the shirt. It looks soft. Is it Jack’s? I bet it would reach my knees if I slipped it on. God, I’ve become a laundry stalker.

Cindy brings sandwiches, chicken salad, and cookies to the table. Cindy takes a dainty bite of sandwich, looking nauseous. Her pregnancy has been awful; it’s hard for her to keep food down. “What’d you find in town, Shortcake?”

I wince then quickly force a smile. Like Dad, Mom always called me Strawberry Shortcake because of my hair color, and it annoys me every time Cindy calls me by my nickname. It belongs to my parents.

“There’s an arcade called the Fun Tunnel that has tons of skee ball lanes. I found lots of places to eat. I saw the school, Hundred Oaks. Looks pretty nice. But it’s like five miles from here—I’ll have to take the bus to school. I wish I had a bike.”

Dad and Cindy glance at each other. I can see the gears turning in their heads. We can’t afford a bike, and we all know it.

“I talked to Jack Goodwin earlier,” I say. “He seems pretty down to earth.”

Dad and Cindy glance at each other again. I swear, did they develop ESP or something?

She taps her fork on her plate. “Shortcake, I don’t think spending time with Jack is a good idea.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. The Goodwins place a
high
premium
on
their
privacy
.”

Cindy shakes her head. “It’s not that…he sneaks girls into his room. The other maids say they never see the same girl twice. You’re too good for him.”

I snort. What a silly thing to say. I’m too good for a millionaire horse farm owner? Whatever. Besides, the first thing I discovered when I got here is that the household staff lives for gossip. They exaggerate everything.

“I’m sure Jack doesn’t have a revolving door to his bedroom.”

Yvonne tightens her thread and loops the needle through the cuff. “I heard from the gardener that Master Jack gave Candy Roxanne, that harlot of a country music singer, a tour of Mrs. Goodwin’s rose gardens. And apparently one thing led to another and he was picking thorns out of his—”

“Yvonne,” Dad says, his voice laced with warnings. He pats my hand. “You know Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin want us to keep our distance. I can’t afford any problems with my new job. Not with a baby on the way.”

“I got it, I got it.”

Dad takes a bite of chicken salad. A piece gets stuck to his mouth, and Cindy leans across the table to sweep it away with her napkin. He gives her a quick kiss. Oh gag me.

Deep down I wish I had someone who would adore me like that. Back in West Virginia, I dated occasionally and fooled around with this guy Adam sometimes on weekends, but I’ve never had a boyfriend-boyfriend. Maybe this’ll be the year I finally get one.

I can’t help but think about how Jack treated me when he thought I was here with a senator. He flirted, he asked questions, he smiled at me. It felt effortless…but he wouldn’t have flirted if he’d known who I was.

• • •

After I finish my sandwich, I head to Greenbriar to find Star. I should get to know the horse before warming him up tomorrow morning.

I jog past the mud pile where the farmhands burn manure and make it into fertilizer. Dad told me Mr. Goodwin sells it to soup companies; they use the fertilizer to grow mushrooms. Remind me never to eat creamy mushroom soup again.

The large wooden doors are wide open as I charge through a flock of birds mooching grain, and the intoxicating smell of hay and horse and manure hits me in the face. Sunlight fills the cool barn, warming me like a good hug.

I find Rory Whitfield grooming Star. He rubs the colt’s nose then uses a soft brush to smooth his face. Rory is cute, but not my type. He’s taller and lankier than Jack and hasn’t fully filled out his frame yet.

“Hey,” I say.

He gives me a grin. “Hay is for horses.”

“Damn, I thought you might be cool. But with lines like that…” Rory laughs at my expression. “So you’re a groom here?” I ask.

“Part-time. I’m still in school. I’m a senior.”

“Me too. Starting Hundred Oaks on Monday.”

“That’s where I go,” he says.

Rory steps away from Star to chat with me, and I find he’s real easy to get along with, just like the guys in the barn I used to work at. Turns out that Whitfield Farms is right up the road from Cedar Hill. He has two parents, three brothers, and a barnyard full of animals. Like Cedar Hill, Whitfield Farms has been around since the Civil War, but instead of horses, they raise cows and breed dogs. In fact, Jack bought his three hounds from Rory’s father a few years ago.

“Why do you work here if you got your own farm?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Demand for dairy has gone down, so my parents aren’t really forthcoming with an allowance. I gotta work here if I want cash.”

“I get you. That’s why I want the exercise boy job.”

Rory swivels to grab a different brush, breaking the cardinal rule of Horse 101: never turn your back on a horse. Star takes advantage of the situation and nudges Rory’s shoulder, shoving him toward the stall door. Then the colt lies down on the floor and rolls back and forth across his straw bed like a puppy. What a prankster.

I laugh. “Good one, Star.”

“Come on, boy,” Rory says. “Get up.”

The horse scrambles to his feet then trots around his stall. He’s definitely a Thoroughbred: lots of energy with a dash of crazy. I love his goofy personality. Star walks over to me. He’s long and sleek. Not an ounce of fat on him.

“Be careful,” Rory says. “He’s been biting.”

Star rests his chin on my shoulder and I rub his neck. He smells super musky, which leads me to believe the grooms are having a hard time keeping him clean. He must act up during his baths. Rory grabs a shovel, scoops up Star’s manure, then charges past me to dump it in a wheelbarrow.

“You are a handsome boy,” I tell Star. He sniffs my hands and snorts and tries to bite my arm. I rip it away just in time. Thoroughbred racehorses aren’t pets. They bite like sharks.

“No!” I say.

Star looks me in the eye and I stare right back, daring him to defy me again. The staring contest goes on for over a minute. I wonder if he’s looking into my soul, finding something I don’t know about. Pain roars through me when I think of Moonshadow and how frightened I am to get close to another horse, considering what happened to her. Finally Star breaks eye contact, leans forward, and nips at my hair, nickering.

“I win,” I tell him, scratching his face. He likes that.

I help give him a bath and check his shoes, and find out he’s a two-year-old colt. Rory confirms that Star is indeed a Ferrari of horses, a descendant of Nasrullah and Man o’ War, super famous racehorses from way back in the day. Five years ago, his sire—his father—nearly won the Triple Crown. We never saw horses like Star in Charles Town, because those races didn’t have big prize money. Those races attracted minivan-like horses; they got the job done okay, but they weren’t flashy or special. The only truly special horse I knew was Moonshadow.

I sigh and follow Rory out of the stall.

“Hey, do you want to hang out tonight?” he asks. “There’s a party we can hit up. I’ll introduce you to people.”

“As friends or a date?” I’m not wild about hooking up with a guy I might be seeing on a daily basis around the farm. Could get awkward real fast.

“Just friends. You’re, like, over a foot shorter than me. I’d break my neck trying to kiss you.”

I decide I like Rory Whitfield.

“Yeah, sure. Tonight sounds good.”

Jack suddenly appears in the barn. “Whitfield, could you excuse us please?”

Rory nods then heads out without another word. Jack’s eyes meet mine and we stand in relative silence. Those damned squawking birds won’t shut up.

“I want to apologize for my behavior this morning,” Jack adds. “Dad always says a gentleman doesn’t hit on his staff.”

One point for me—I was right. His dad must control the puppet strings.

Wait. He was hitting on me?

My heart rockets out of control. He’s cute, but I could never trust him. I’m sure all he cares about is his fortune, just like other rich people, like awful Mr. Cates back in Charles Town.

Jack goes on, “It won’t happen again.”

“Good to know,” I say, copying his super professional voice.

He looks shocked momentarily then struts over to a stall. “Can you help me get Strawberry ready to be loaded into her trailer?”

“Of course.” I move toward the mare’s stall. “Where are you taking her?”

Jack blushes. “I’m taking her to stud up at Lotus Farms.”

I choke back a snort of laughter, picturing Jack having to stand there staring at his watch while two horses get it on. He grins at my reaction, but it melts away quickly. Apparently running a horse farm means you are never allowed to smile.

A yearling pokes his head out of his stall to see what we’re up to. I open Strawberry’s tack trunk, pull out her treats, and change the subject.

“Jack, is there anything I need to know about Star before tomorrow’s race? Like, anything I should do during our warm-ups?”

“Star is scared of something, and none of us can figure out what it is. Not even your dad or Gael knows. And if they can’t figure it out, I guess we’ll never know,” Jack says, attaching a lead to Strawberry’s halter.

Lots of horses are scared of silly things. I once knew a powerful stallion that was terrified of dandelions.

“What’s Star’s record this year?” I ask. “I haven’t seen him mentioned in the
Daily
Racing
Form
.”

Lines zip across his forehead. “He hasn’t placed or shown yet.”

“Out of how many races?”

“Six.”

With Star’s breeding, he should have at least shown by now. I cringe as I feed Strawberry a treat.

Jack nods at my reaction. “I’m trying to get some wins before the Dixiana Derby in October.”

“What’s the purse?”

“Tomorrow’s is $75,000. The Dixiana is guaranteed $500,000.”

I whistle. “How much was the stud fee for Star?”

Jack adjusts his hat, averting his eyes. “Over half a mil.”

I whistle again but louder this time, making him laugh nervously. Paying for Star to be born was like ordering the most expensive thing on the menu. Most midrange Thoroughbred stud fees are around $250,000–300,000. I imagine that’s what the Goodwins charge when other owners want to breed their mares with Cedar Hill stallions.