Secretariat Reborn (9 page)

Christian stared at Hunter and felt pangs of disappointment, learning of the colt’s unimpressive workout time. The track clocker had to be accurate. He reached into the stall and massaged the white star on Hunter’s forehead. “You probably just had a bad day.”

Jorge held the colt’s lead as another man put on the tack. When they finished, Jorge led the colt out and the other groom gave an exercise rider a leg up into the tiny saddle. In the courtyard, Hunter walked in the wide circle, following five other mounted horses.

Price returned. “Are you ready, Mr. Roberts?”

“Call me Christian.” He followed Price to his golf cart that sat under the banyan tree near the parking lot. In the predawn darkness,
they followed Hunter and his rider along with the other horses down the street toward the track.

“I noticed Hunter’s lost some weight and has several cuts on his back legs,” said Christian.

Price glanced at him. “For a new owner, you’re very observant.”

Christian realized that Price had not only checked out the colt’s pedigree and his stud’s racing history, but had also checked on him, learning he was an amateur in the business. “Hunter might be my first racehorse, but my father is a trainer, and I know something about Thoroughbreds.” In the world of racing, it wasn’t wise to come across too dumb.

Price made a crooked smile. “Then you should know those are speed cuts, caused when the front hooves nick the back legs when a horse runs. The farrier fixed the problem and adjusted the new aluminum plates. It shouldn’t happen again. As for his weight, most horses are nervous when they first arrive and lose a little. But he’s eating and sweating well. That’s more important.”

Price spoke with such authority that Christian was temporarily assured. Perhaps he had misjudged Price earlier, and the man was a good trainer. Between the first grandstand seats and the track railing, Price came to a stop on a wide stretch of asphalt. Other golf carts with trainers were scattered about, facing the finish line.

“Here comes your colt.” Price pointed. “He’s working in company with another chestnut.”

Christian eased out of the cart, and the two red horses galloped past under the floodlights. Beyond the racetrack, a pink-and-gold horizon was engulfing the night sky. The fiery horses and brilliant sunrise left Christian awestruck.

A dark bay reared up on the first turn, dumping the exercise boy, and taking off down the backstretch.

“Loose horse,” called a voice from the PA. Riders pulled up their horses, and the pony riders chased after the runaway, trying to capture it before the horse hurt itself or others. An outrider on a paint gelding quickly cornered the bay, grabbed its reins, and galloped it
to a stop. Immediately, the other Thoroughbreds in training continued their daily exercise as if incident had never occurred.

Christian glanced down the track at the rider, who slowly rose from the dirt with no help. “I hope that guy is all right.”

“Exercise boys are a dime a dozen,” Price retorted. “It’s the horse that matters. That damn kid should’ve hung on, risked injury to that horse.”

Christian reflected on the painful event in his childhood when the gray colt had dumped him and he broke his arm. Like Price, his father had only been concerned about the horse. What was it with this breed of men with their all-consuming passion for horses? They seemed to have little sensitivity left for a fellow human being, for a son.

Christian lowered his head, nagged for the hundredth time that he had lacked a father’s love in his formative years. He believed he would eventually outgrow this insecurity, but realized the anxiety would most likely haunt him forever.

Price’s cell phone sang out. “They’re already here? Okay, okay, tell them I’m on my way.” He flipped the lid shut. “I hate to cut this short, but I need to get back to the barn.”

With the morning radiance, the cart and barn lights were no longer needed when they sped through the back lot. A white stretch limo was parked on the road in front of the barn. Price whipped the cart into its spot under the tree and hopped out.

“I’m sorry,” Price said, “but I’ve gotta run. I’ll call if anything comes up about your horse or when I get him in a race.” He made tracks to the limo.

Christian hung around and watched Jorge give Hunter a bath and a cooling-down walk around the shed row. The colt was placed back into his stall, a foot deep in clean wood shavings. Hunter lay down, rolled a few times, and stood. Starting with twisting his head, the colt’s shaking motion traveled down his body and ended with a flick of his tail, ridding himself of the clinging shavings. Jorge stuffed
alfalfa hay into the hanging mess bag in the colt’s stall before he left to tend to other horses.

Christian stroked the colt’s head while Hunter gobbled up the rich hay and enjoyed the cool breeze of a stall fan. “I hope you like it here, boy,” he whispered. “It’s costing me sixty dollars a day.”

Leaving the stables, Christian noticed Price across the courtyard. He was deep in conversation with a group of dark-skinned men with black beards, dressed in Arab garb of white kaffiyehs and long robes. So they were the limo’s occupants.

Christian understood why the trainer had brushed him off earlier. These rich Middle Eastern sheiks were probably the trainer’s bread-and-butter clients, while he was a small-time, one-horse owner, always worried about money and costs.

He gave Jorge and the exercise kid a modest tip and patted Hunter good-bye. As he walked to his SUV, he noticed that Price and the Arabs watched him. He nodded to Price, and the trainer responded with a thumbs-up grin.

Since Kate would be out for hours, Christian drove to the employee cafeteria near the training track. He needed coffee. In the restaurant, the crude tables and plastic chairs were occupied by several Hispanic laborers. The hardworking Mexicans seemed to him to be the backbone of the Thoroughbred industry.

He wandered through the buffet, rejecting the rubbery scrambled eggs and greasy bacon in the heating pans and choosing a bagel and cream cheese to go with his coffee. Last night’s late partying had left him feeling queasy and drained. Maybe some food would help. He headed outside to eat and watch the horses on the smaller training track. Holding his food and drink, he backed against the door to get out and bumped into someone coming in. Coffee flew onto his shirt. “Ah, shit,” he cursed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Christian glanced down at a young blonde woman, whose head reached only to the middle of his chest. “It’s my fault. I should’ve
watched where I was going.” The splattered coffee and stained shirt suddenly vanished from his mind.

Her deep-brown eyes stared up at him, and Christian felt breathless, nervous. Even with no makeup and in a dirty white blouse and worn jeans, she was stunning.

She shook her ponytail and focused on the stain. “Let me get a towel before your shirt is ruined.” She walked to a cafeteria worker and quickly returned with a damp cloth. As she dabbed away at his shirt, Christian’s chest pounded and his mind went blank. Finally, he mumbled, “Do you work here? I don’t mean the cafeteria. I mean at the track—ah, with horses. I mean you’re dressed like you work with horses.” He gulped down some air, aware he sounded like an idiot.

Her smile was easy and full. “I know what you mean,” she said, her voice restraining a laugh. “I’m a trainer.” She raised an eyebrow. “And judging by this expensive shirt, you must be an owner.”

“I have one, one horse, I mean. I have, a-ah several shirts.” He now felt like slapping himself.

Why was he losing it? He was normally confident, felt he could talk intelligently with women and dazzle them with his looks and charm. But with this girl he was flustered and totally disarmed.

She finished wiping his shirt. “When you get back to your hotel, rinse this in cold water. I think it’ll be all right.”

“Thanks. Um—my name is Christian. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”

“If we do, I hope you’re not carrying coffee,” she jested and turned away, gliding through the restaurant, disappearing beyond the doors that led to the tack and gift shops.

Christian lumbered outside.
That went well. Came across like a moron. If she saw me again, she’d run
.

At the hotel, Christian managed to get Kate up before eleven and halfheartedly asked if she’d like to have lunch at the clubhouse and watch some races. She declined, saying she wasn’t up for it. They
headed home with Kate sleeping most of the trip. She woke when they reached the outskirts of Sarasota.

He drove out to her Longboat Key condo and pulled into the bottom-floor garage, parking alongside her Porsche. He grabbed her bag, and they rode up the elevator in silence. At her condo, she unlocked the door, dropped her keys and purse on a side table, and sashayed in.

He placed her bag just inside the doorway and stood outside. “Kate, I’ll talk to you later,” he called.

She turned and wrinkled her brows. “Aren’t you coming in?”

“I told you, I’m worried about my father. I’m heading straight for Ocala, but I’ll be back in a few days.” She walked back toward him, and he expected a good-bye kiss.

“Fuck you, Chris,” she said and slammed the door in his face.

He gazed upward at the ceiling. “That’s it. That’s it.” He breathed. “I’m done.”

At six in the evening, Christian pulled into Ocala, stopping at a Kentucky Fried Chicken to pick up supper before going to the farm. Entering the house, he called to his father.

“Christian, is that you?” his father answered from his bedroom.

Christian walked into the room and held up the bucket of chicken. “Thought I’d bring dinner.”

His father slowly swung his legs around and sat up. “I told you not to come up here,” he complained. “You should be in Miami, checking on your horse. He’s more important.”

“That’s your opinion, not mine. Besides, I just came from Miami.”

His father’s eyes lit up. “How is he? Did the trainer breeze him yet?”

“The colt is fine, Price worked him, and said he should do well in his maiden race.”

“Damn right,” his father said and stood. “That colt is probably the best horse in his stable. What was the time?”

Christian hesitated and fearing the mediocre time might upset his father, he lied. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

Hank gave his son a disapproving stare. “Christian, you need to remember these things. The breeze time determines the race that he’s fit to run.”

Over dinner, they discussed other aspects of the colt’s training. Christian mentioned the minor speed cuts on the horse’s back legs and slight weight loss. His father wasn’t too surprised. He got a kick out of hearing that the exercise boy had called Hunter a Cadillac.

Christian sensed that his father was willing himself to stay alive long enough to see the colt run, believing the win would make up for his fatherly failings. After dinner, Christian crashed, wiped out from driving and getting only two hours of sleep in two days. The next morning, he rose early to talk to Juan.

He found Juan cleaning the stallion’s stall while the horse was turned out. “I’m worried, Juan. Dad is growing worse. He needs to be in an assisted living or a hospital.”

Juan stopped raking. “Your father would not go. He is too proud. And in such a place, the unhappiness would kill him faster than the cancer. He says he wants to die right here.”

“Well, something has to be done. He can barely get up.” Christian kicked some shavings back into the stall. “He can’t stay alone anymore. I’ll call his doctor and see if hospice can help out.”

“I have told Mr. Roberts that my mother is available. She would not charge much to come during the day and cook, clean, and wait on him, but Mr. Roberts said no.”

“Did he?” Christian said. “Tell your mother that she’s hired and to be here tomorrow.”

Juan grinned. “She can come with me in the morning when I take care of the horses and leave with me when I’m done feeding them in the afternoon.”

Early the next morning, Juan’s mother, Rosa, knocked on the door, and Christian let her in. “Thanks for coming,” he whispered. “Dad doesn’t know I hired you. We’ll let it be a surprise.”

The plump, middle-aged woman nodded. “
Sí, señor
, I will start with the kitchen.”

“Christian, who’s here?” his father called and shuffled into the kitchen, an ever-present cigarette between his fingers. He stared at Rosa, washing dishes. “What’s she doing here?”

“I hired her,” said Christian. “She’ll be here every day, helping you out.”

“Wait just a darn minute. I don’t need or want help.”

“And I didn’t want the colt,” said Christian, “but I took him for you, so do this for me. I’ll feel better if someone is here.”

Instead of answering, his father turned and crept back to his bedroom. Christian heard him start a fit of coughing as if reproaching his son’s meddling.

Christian finally drove toward home. For the last several days, he’d felt like a fireman, racing up and down the state, putting out flames, making sure the colt was okay in Miami while trying to please a bitchy girlfriend, and making sure his father got help in Ocala. Now he headed to Sarasota, anxious about his boat business and lack of income caused by his absence.