Secretariat Reborn (15 page)

Christian scratched his head. “So you have this all figured out.”

“I do, but, Christian, don’t ever tell anybody about the colt’s origin. Nobody can know he’s a clone. If it leaked out that you knew, you, the trainer, and everyone associated with the colt could be implicated. Besides fraud charges, you’d lose the right to own Thoroughbreds and have to return all the winnings on the colt.”

“What about the cloning scientists? They must know.”

“They don’t know squat. I used the name Jones when I signed the cloning contract and gave them the down payment in cash. I told them I got the DNA from a great barrel horse. Barrel horses
don’t have to be a registered breed. Those vets and scientists in Texas have no clue about what they have.”

“So how did you managed to get Secretariat’s DNA? He’s been dead for years.”

“When I was roughly your age, I read a little article on cloning. Apparently, a fly had been successfully cloned back in the fifties, and they had started working with mice. At the same time, Secretariat won the ’73 Triple Crown and did it with class. He broke the track record at the Kentucky Derby and Belmont Stakes.”

Hank cast his eyes on the wall and it seemed he had drifted to a different place and time. “My God, what a race,” he mumbled. “Never saw anything like it. It made me cry. Plenty of Triple Crown contenders have won the Derby and Preakness, but they lack the stamina to finish that grueling mile and a half Belmont, but Secretariat did. He shut the critics up and won by an unheard-of thirty-one lengths ahead of the field. The whole country stopped for two minutes and watched that Belmont. It was unforgettable. Darn race still gives me shivers. If the clock hadn’t screwed up in the Preakness, he’d hold that track record too. Since then, no horse has matched his times.”

Christian heard the enthusiasm in his father’s voice and, for a brief moment, the cancer and pain seemed to leave him.

“Anyway, I put two and two together,” Hank continued. “I knew they’d perfect horse cloning someday. Secretariat was the ultimate animal and, alive today, he’d be the most expensive. In the eighties, I put my plan in motion when he stood at stud at Claiborne Farms in Kentucky. I scraped together a couple of hundred bucks and paid a young groom named Wendell to sneak into Secretariat’s stall and take a vial of his blood. I froze it and waited, waited for science to catch up. Ten years after Secretariat died, they cloned the first sheep, Dolly, in ’97. I knew it was getting close.” He fumbled for his cigarette pack on the nightstand.

“Dad, you can’t smoke around an oxygen tank,” said Christian. “You’ll blow the house up.”

“Hell, I smoke in here all the time. Just turn the damn tank off.”

“If you want a cigarette, I’ll put you in the wheelchair and take you out on the porch.”

“Forget it.” He sighed and went on with his story. “Anyway, I heard that Texas A&M was cloning horses, so I mortgaged the farm, sent Secretariat’s blood off, and prayed—prayed the DNA wasn’t too old and my horses earned enough purse money to finish paying for the colt. My prayers were answered. A quarter horse mare got pregnant and Hunter showed real promise, but, then, go figure. I had cancer.”

“Dad, how do you know the clone will be like Secretariat?”

“Because I had an independent vet X-ray him and send me the pictures,” said Hank.

“What does that prove?”

“Most people don’t know that Secretariat was a freak of nature. When he died, the vets did an autopsy and discovered his heart weighed twenty-seven pounds, twice the size of a normal Thoroughbred. His big heart allowed him to pump more blood and oxygen, giving him the speed.” Hank smiled wide. “And guess what, according to the X-rays, your little colt has an oversized heart. If he develops Secretariat’s tremendous stride and determination, no horse can beat him.”

Christian stood, walked to the window, and stared out. “This is crazy. It’s like science fiction.”

“Yeah, but science fiction has a way of becoming reality,” said Hank. “Remember, son, people who have imagination and take risks are the ones that come out ahead. I had the vision to see this dream. Now you need the guts to carry it out.”

“All right.” Christian sat back down. “Assuming, somehow, I find the money and get this colt back here. I raise him up and put him in a race. What then?”

“First of all,” he said, “find yourself a good trainer you can trust.”

Christian raised an eyebrow. “I do have a trainer in mind.”

“Good. The colt will have to climb the ladder, a maiden special
weight, an allowance, and then one or two stake races. Enter him in the Florida Derby and, when he wins, he’ll be eligible for the Kentucky Derby and other Triple Crown races. I’ve already paid for the Breeders’ Cup races. After the colt retires from racing, he’ll have to be gelded.”

“Geld him?”

“I told you,” Hank said. “The Jockey Club does a second DNA test before a stallion goes to stud, and they’ll discover the wrong DNA. Besides that, his foals will also show up with the incorrect DNA when tested for registering. You’ll lose the purse money, and the horse will be worthless. You bring him home, claim he’s sterile, and geld him. That will be the end of it.”

“What a waste. How much is a Triple Crown winner worth?”

“In today’s market, upward of half a billion.” He took Christian’s hand and squeezed it. “Most of my life I’ve had lousy luck. Never hit the big time with a great horse. Now I think God was storing up all my good luck for you, the son I neglected. That’s why I believe this little red colt will be remarkable.”

Christian grimaced. “Oh, Dad.” He lowered his head on the bed. “I don’t want you to go,” he whispered. “I need you.”

Hank stroked Christian’s hair and sighed. “You’ll do fine. If there’s an afterlife, I promise I’ll be looking out for you. You’re a good boy, and you’ll succeed where I have failed.”

Under a massive oak, Christian stood in an off-the-rack black suit his mother had hastily purchased and stared in a daze at the ominous dark clouds moving in. The clear-blue morning skies had given way to the afternoon thunderstorms, typical of Florida in July. Nearby, the crowd listened to a reverend speak the final words over the coffin. A week after Hunter’s race, Christian’s father had passed away.

Christian knew it was coming, thought he was prepared, but the finality was overwhelming. The never-again part threw him, and he struggled with his emotions. He couldn’t focus on the ceremony.
His mind kept churning with things he wished he had said, but now, too late.

Allie took his hand. He glanced down, grateful she had come, but he could only halfheartedly smile. He had called her the day before and asked if she would come up after the funeral and take old Chris and the two mares to her farm. Back in Sarasota, he hoped to find the horses a good home. She surprised him and had showed up an hour before the memorial service.

Next to him, he heard his mother’s sniffles. Frank put his arm around her shoulders, comforting her. Yesterday, he had flown into the small Ocala airport. In the crowd, Christian saw Juan, Rosa, and Shirley, the bar owner, but the rest he didn’t know and he was taken aback by their numbers. Most of them, horse people, he thought. They came to pay their last respects to a man who had shared the same obsession.

The memorial service ended with sprinkling rain and the loud rumble of thunder. The people scattered, rushing from the cemetery under the threat of an approaching storm. Christian and Allie were the last to go. They walked toward his SUV as a strong wind howled and knocked small branches out of the trees. With a crash of lightning, the black clouds opened. The couple managed to get inside Christian’s vehicle and beat the torrential rain.

Christian didn’t start the engine but sat silently. He watched the raindrops pelt the windshield and listened to the wailing gusts. He finally glanced at Allie.

“Until recently, I hadn’t seen my father in years,” he said, “but I really miss him. At the same time, I’m pissed I was deprived of him all that time, angry he dragged me into his damn horse business, then up and left me.” His eyes welled up, but the tears never fell.

Allie clutched his hand. “I wish I could help you make sense of all this. I’ve only learned that when life sucks and hands me lemons, I try to make lemonade. It’s a stupid old cliché, but it works for me.”

“Lemonade, huh?” He turned to her. “If not for Hunter, I never
would have met you. That’s lemonade, I reckon. Allie, Dad gave me another colt.”

By the time Christian and Allie pulled up to the farm, the sheets of rain had diminished to a drizzle. His mother, Frank, Rosa, and Juan were inside the house. The six of them sat down to a quiet dinner and discussed the next few days.

They decided that in the morning Allie, with Juan’s help, would load the three horses in her trailer, and she would take them back to her Myakka farm. Christian, his mother, and Rosa would box up Hank’s belongings. Christian would decide what he wanted and the rest—furniture, linens, food would go to Rosa and Juan. They could either keep or distribute the things to needy Mexican families.

After dinner, Frank took Christian aside, and they sat on the dark porch, drinking cocktails and talking about the farm and finances. Frank had reviewed the farm mortgage. With the sizable second loan and falling real estate prices, the farm had no equity left. Hank had also failed to make the last few payments, and the bank was threatening foreclosure.

Although Christian was supposed to inherit the farm, Frank advised him to let the bank foreclose. Otherwise, Christian would be saddled with huge mortgage payments. The meager profit if and when the farm sold was not worth risking bankruptcy and destroying Christian’s credit. He agreed and thanked Frank.

“There’s one other thing,” Christian said, “but please don’t tell Mom. I was arrested in Miami for battery. I bailed out, and the hearing is set for next week.”

“Who did you punch?”

“I didn’t punch anyone, Frank. I shoved a horse trainer against a tree after I learned he cheated me. It’s bull. The guy wasn’t even hurt.”

“Were there witnesses?”

“Tons, I did it at the track.”

Frank took a sip of his drink. “When I get back to Sarasota tomorrow, I’ll give the Miami prosecutor a call. If that’s all that happened, I might be able to talk him into dropping the charges.”

“Thanks,” Christian said, appreciating that Frank rarely lectured or criticized. His mother, however, was a different matter, sometimes forgetting he was grown. If she found out, she would likely give Christian a lengthy sermon for losing his temper and getting arrested.

Frank stood up from the porch chair. “I’m beat and ready for the motel. I better get your mother.”

Frank and Angie settled into her car and drove to the motel. Rosa and Juan left soon after, leaving Christian and Allie alone.

“I better hit the road too,” said Allie as they sat on the couch. “I want an early start. I told my neighbor who’s caring for my horses that I’d be back tomorrow for the afternoon feeding.” She stood and walked to the front door.

Christian had been stunned when Allie arrived in the afternoon and supported him during the funeral. After all, they had not known each other for very long. But he was further astonished with her appearance. Rather than faded blue jeans and a ponytail, she wore a short black dress, makeup, and her blonde hair tapered around her face and drifted to her shoulders. She was pretty before, but she had transformed into gorgeous. Being so distracted throughout the day, he could not recall if he had complimented her.

He rose abruptly and stepped to the doorway and her. “Allie, did I tell you that you look great?”

She grinned. “Several times.”

“Oh, sorry.” He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Guess I’m a little out of it.” He nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Do you really have to leave? I mean instead of going to a motel, you could stay here—with me.”

She reached up, and her hand traveled across his shoulder and up his neck where she finger-combed the hair hanging over his collar.
“It’s tempting.” Before he could respond, she removed her hand and stepped back. “But no,” she said. “Neither of us is ready for another relationship. Let’s take it slow and just be friends.”

He lowered his head and nodded. She left the house and strolled to her truck as he followed. She started to open the cab door.

“Allie?” he said. She turned and faced him. “I appreciate your coming.” He leaned down and kissed her, intending a short good-night kiss, a thank-you kiss, a
friend
kiss, but it evolved, neither of them wanting it to end.

She clung to his neck, holding him tight, and he wrapped his arms around her slender waist. They kissed until they were breathless.

“Screw friendship,” she gasped. “The minute I saw you, I wanted you.” Against the pickup, under the stars, with the cool night wind whipping around them, he made love to her.

Allie never made it to a motel. Christian swept her up in his arms and carried her into his old bedroom, where their passion continued late into the night. Curling his frame around her petite body, he clutched her and drifted to sleep.

The next morning, Christian opened his eyes, feeling whipped, but content. He stretched and put his hand out to touch Allie, but the double bed was empty. Startled, he sat up. Bright sunlight flooded the room, and he heard his mother and Rosa chatting behind the closed door. He glanced at his watch—nine o’clock. He slipped on a pair of cutoffs and walked into the living room.

“Late night, son?” Angie teased.

“Yeah,” he said, and pushed his hair back. “Is Allie here?”

“No, Mr. Christian,” said Rosa. “She and the horses were gone before Juan and I arrived. She must have hooked up her trailer and loaded them by herself.”

“While you and Frank were on the porch last night, Allie and I had a nice chat,” Angie said and folded towels that she placed in a
box. “That girl’s had it rough, but I think it made her self-reliant and smart. I like this one, Christian. She’s a keeper.”

“I like her too, Mom.”

A few days later Christian helped Juan and a few men load the last of the furniture into a truck. They drove away and Christian found himself alone. He walked through the empty house that held only faded curtains and exited the back screen door. Under a large oak tree, he ran his hand over the trunk and the initials of his name, carved there when a child. Glancing upward, he envisioned his tree fort that his father had built. The few nails still remained in the bark.