Racing Savannah (13 page)

At daybreak on Tuesday, day two of my jockey training, I begin exercising the horses. Now that it’s September and the humidity is fading into fall, my skin isn’t slick with sweat like dew coating the grass, but I’m still hot as hell.

I steer Echoes of Summer out onto the track and click my tongue, urging her into a trot. An exercise rider who works for another horse owner calls out, “Women don’t belong on the racetrack! Go make me breakfast!” The rider smiles goofily and the guys around him start chuckling. I ignore them and ride on by. Assholes.

At the 3/8 pole, Bryant Townsend rides up beside me and gives me a look.

“What?” I say over the sound of hooves slamming the dirt. “You come to tell me girls shouldn’t be jockeys?”

“I came to tell you don’t even think about stealing any more of my business. Yeah, Star hasn’t won yet, but now I won’t get
any
money off him.”

I look straight ahead, continuing to trot. What Bryant says makes me feel somewhat guilty—jockeys only make money when the horses they ride win, and when Jack asked me to become Star’s jockey, that meant Bryant would lose business if Star were to win.

“I need this chance,” I tell Bryant.

“Just don’t agree to race any other horses. I have a car payment and bills to deal with.” Bryant speeds up, leaving me to think about how lucky I am to have a place to live.

After I finish exercising Echoes of Summer, second up on my schedule is Star. Sweat drips down my face as we trot around the track, warming up.

Three other exercise riders are right beside me when a baby raccoon appears on the top of a fence post. A colt screams and jerks his head. Then two of the fillies do the same thing. Which of course means that Star goes ballistic at forty miles per hour.

I hold on tight as Star rears onto his hind legs. Oh shit. “Star,” I say in a soothing voice. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” But I’m terrified. Star returns to all fours, sidesteps, and jerks his head again, whinnying, and I kick his sides and try to urge him forward, but he won’t budge.

The next time he jerks, he uses such force I can’t hold on. He pitches me sideways off his back. I free my feet and leap, making an emergency exit. Avoid Star’s hooves. Attempt a shoulder roll. Land on the track, right on my butt, kicking up dust. Star takes off, the stirrups banging against his sides. The wailing alarm sounds. Other horses dash past me. I’m sitting on the interstate without a car. Outriders begin to chase after Star as I bring myself to a sitting position, and right then a speeding colt clips my shin with his hoof and I scream in pain.

I fall to the dirt, clutching my leg.

“No, no, no!” Jack sprints up to me and slides onto the track like a baseball player into second base. “Are you okay?”

I don’t respond. I hold a gloved hand out toward him. It’s shaking.

Jack squeezes my hand and shuts his eyes, panting. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says under his breath. Is he talking to me or to the horse gods?

“Go get Star,” I mutter, clutching my leg.

“No,” Jack says.

Dad and Gael follow behind Jack, and seeing the horrified look on Dad’s face makes my eyes water. It’s been a long time since I’ve fallen off a horse. My leg feels like I got wacked with a crowbar. Damn.

It takes a few minutes for my heart to stop racing and my body to stop shaking, but I think my leg and butt are okay.

Mr. Goodwin jogs up. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “I just had the wind knocked out of me.” There is no way I’m giving up my chance to race this Saturday! “What you need is a damned raccoon exterminator already!” I tell Mr. Goodwin, making him and Jack chuckle.

“I’ll get right on that,” Jack says.

“Maybe you should go to the doctor,” Dad says, but I shake my head.

“I didn’t hit my head or anything, and nothing hurts except for my leg and my butt,” I whisper, embarrassed. Horsemen around the track are staring at me. People fall off horses all the time—Dad is just being a drama queen. I don’t want him to have to pay for an emergency room visit just because my butt is sore. I’d know if I broke something. My leg is gonna have a nasty bruise tomorrow, that’s for sure.

“We need to get you off the track,” Mr. Goodwin says, looking over at the gates. “We’ve got about twenty riders waiting.”

Cedar Hill is a business, after all. I lurch to my feet, and Dad tells everyone that he’s keeping me home from school to make sure I don’t have a head injury.

“Dad, don’t. That’ll make me look like a complete pansy.”

“You’re staying home.”

“If she’s staying home from school, I’ll bring over some film for her to watch,” Gael says, winking at me. He knows Dad is overreacting.

“I’ll carry her back,” Jack says, slipping an arm under my knees and the other under my shoulder blades, lifting me off the track. Mr. Goodwin gives his son a look, but Jack doesn’t pay attention.

“Put me down,” I tell Jack through clenched teeth. “Nobody’s gonna take me seriously if you’re carrying me all over the place.” He immediately drops me back to my feet and a pang of pain engulfs my shin. I hiss and hop on one foot.

My dad starts rubbing his eyes and wiping sweat off his face, glancing between Mr. Goodwin and Jack. I can see Dad’s pulse racing beneath the skin of his neck.

“Son, get her off the track,” Mr. Goodwin says, and Jack grabs my arm and pulls me toward Hillcrest.

“Can I still race on Saturday?” I ask, hobbling.

Jack avoids my question. “Let’s go check out that leg.”

He leads me back to Hillcrest and escorts me to my bedroom. There, he looks around my super tiny room. It’s only big enough for a twin bed and a small dresser that doubles as a nightstand. A framed picture of my mother hangs beside the door. Yellow paint is peeling off the walls and the only sunlight filters through a tiny rectangular window near the ceiling. The twin bed has the same bedding I’ve had since I was eight—Strawberry Shortcake.

Jack chuckles at my bedspread as we plop down. “I knew you were a Shortcake.”

I want to dive under the covers and die from embarrassment. I need a new comforter immediately.

After helping me remove my gloves and vest, Jack pulls my boots and socks off, lifts my legs onto his lap, peels my pant leg back, and examines my shin. He whistles at the big purple welt forming. “You should ice it, but it doesn’t look serious—”

“Son,” Mr. Goodwin says, appearing in my doorway with my father. Both men stare down at my legs in Jack’s lap. “You need to get back on the track and let the horsemen know why we have a twenty-minute delay this morning. You need to do your job,
understand
?”

The emotion disappears from Jack’s face, he removes my feet from his lap, and he suddenly stands. “Yes, sir.”

“I hope you feel better, Savannah,” Jack says seriously before leaving, clicking the door shut.

Dad watches Jack disappear then sits down on my bed. “What happened out there? How did you lose control?”

“Star’s strong and he was scared.”

My father shakes his head. “I don’t want you riding that horse anymore.”

“No—”

“Don’t argue—”

“The only reason the Goodwins are training me as a jockey is to ride Star—”

“And you think they’ll let you now after you lost control of the horse and fell?”

“That happens to everybody! And raccoons were involved! This happened to a rider on the third day we were here, for God’s sake!”

Dad clenches the Strawberry Shortcake comforter in his fist and shuts his eyes.

I can’t give up the chance to make a better name, a better future for myself. The fact I’m still using the same kid bedding just proves I need better opportunities. Sometimes you’ve gotta take risks to get something better.

“Please,” I say. “I’ll do anything. Please let me keep working.”

“I’ve gotta get back to work,” he says. “Stay in that bed.”

“Dad!” I call out, but he leaves without another word.

God, is it all over after less than a week? I bury my face in my pillow. What happened this morning scared me…but not having a future in horseracing scares me just as much, if not more.

Midafternoon when I’m icing my shin for the fourth time, Gael brings film for me to watch and I move to the common room because I don’t have a TV. It brings a smile to my face that Gael isn’t gonna let me quit just because I fell.

“When I was a jockey,” Gael says, “I fell at least once a month. And I didn’t even have raccoons to blame.”

Later in the day, Dad sits on my bed with me. “I’m sorry I yelled at you this morning,” he says. “But you need to get your body in better shape so you can ride at high speeds if you want to keep your job.”

“I can keep it?” I exclaim.

Dad runs a hand through his hair. “What happened this morning wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, it was those goddamned raccoons.”

Dad pats my knee. “Hey, watch your mouth, Shortcake.”

“Can I race this weekend?”

“We’ll see…but you need to start doing more workouts with Gael. And don’t think I won’t hesitate to stop your training if I don’t think you can handle it, understand?”

I hug his neck, promising myself I’ll be extra vigilant from now on. He’s right—this job can be the difference between life and death.

Dad hands me a packet of papers. “Jack came by. He brought your schoolwork.”

“Groan,” I say. “He must not know me very well if he thinks I actually want to do my homework.”

On top of the papers is a thick beige note card embossed with Jack’s name in gold ink.
John
Conrad
Goodwin
IV
. What guy has his own stationery? It even smells like his cologne. Jesus Lord.

The note reads,

Star says he's sorry. For his punishment, I'm withholding carrots and he isn't allowed to play in the pasture with the fillies for a week. That'll teach him a lesson. I'd go crazy if someone took away my favorite food and access to girls. Feel better soon -JG

I laugh silently at the note. But couldn’t he have told me this in person?

“What’s going on between you and him?” Dad asks.

I bring the note card to my mouth, to chew on the corner. “We’re working with Star. That’s all,” I lie, wishing I could erase last weekend’s make-out session from my mind.

“Make sure that’s all it is,” Dad says, giving me a stern glare. “I had a hard time keeping him out of here this afternoon. I told him he couldn’t see you ’cause I didn’t want you stressed out in case you got a concussion this morning.”

So that’s why he sent a note.

“Jack only wants to get in your pants,” Dad says.

My hands fly to cover my eyes. “God, Dad! Shut up!”

“Mr. Goodwin would never allow his son to date you.”

It hurts hearing Dad say that. Because I know it’s true. I’ve heard it from Mr. Goodwin’s own mouth.

“You know the maids’ stories about all the girls Jack messes around with in his room. And like Cindy told you, you’re too good for him.”

I might have thought that a week ago. But a week ago, he wouldn’t have sent me a card and collected my homework. I smell the card again, enjoying his cologne, thinking of his funny words. I really like who he is as a person.

Regardless of what anybody says, I’d give him another chance if he wants to try to make us work. But still, which Jack is the real Jack? The farm owner at home or the sweet goofball who emerges when we’re alone?

Even though I majorly crashed and burned Tuesday morning on the track, Jack still wants me to race Saturday at Kentucky Downs. Other than him, it’s all I can think about during the day. Gael has me riding for hours a day now, and my arms and legs feel like noodles thanks to his weight training.

But late at night, when I’m alone with my thoughts, while Dad and Cindy are cuddling together on the couch and Rory is immersed in his writing or spending time with Vanessa, I think of Jack. I should’ve known better than to make out with him, but everything felt right, and I’ve always heard you should live in the moment. When she was my age, I doubt my mother thought she’d lose her life at thirty.

On Thursday night after everyone has gone to sleep, I climb out of bed in my pajamas and go to the common room. I flick on the lights and sit down at the computer.

I type
colleges
in
Tennessee
into Google. A school called Belmont pops up as the first choice. I tap the link and a picture of a brick building surrounded by lush green trees fills the screen. I click on the admissions homepage and scroll through the requirements. Looks like they suggest a minimum GPA of 3.5. Mine is 3.2. School has never been my forte. I’d rather shovel manure than do algebra.

Holy shit—the Belmont application fee alone is $50. Is it that pricey at every school? Didn’t Rory say some cost $35? Applying to five schools like this one would cost $250. Other than people like Jack, who can afford that?

Still. The pictures of the dorm rooms, the quad, and students having fun at basketball games make my heart speed up a little.

“Why are you out of bed?”

I quickly exit out of the browser and swivel to face Dad, who’s standing there holding a glass of water.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I say. “What are you doing?”

“Cindy was thirsty. What were you looking at on the computer?”

“Um, nothing really.”

Dad sits on the couch armrest. “It looked like you were on a college website.”

I slowly lift a shoulder, cracking my knuckles. “Just messing around.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in college. I thought you were gonna work as an exercise boy.”

“I am,” I say quickly. There’s a long still silence, as Dad’s eyes leave mine and focus on the glass of water.

“You’ve changed a lot in the few weeks we’ve been here, Shortcake…I barely recognize you anymore since we moved. I never imagined you’d be interested in jockeying or college.”

I sigh and push the button to turn off the computer monitor.

“Don’t get me wrong—I’m proud of you, but I don’t know anything about college,” Dad goes on. “I guess we could ask Mr. Goodwin what he knows but I don’t know how we’d pay for—”

“No, no,” I say. “Don’t talk to Mr. Goodwin.” I can’t handle the idea of being more in debt than we already are. What I need to do is keep making money. That wouldn’t happen if I went to college.

“Dad?” I ask. “Are you going to marry Cindy?”

He gives me a sad smile and cradles the glass in his hands. “I’m going to ask her when I have enough money to buy her a ring.”

The memory of Mr. Winchester snapping his fingers at me to refill his wine glass pops into my mind. He was wearing a large ruby ring encircled with diamonds. He didn’t even say please and thank you. Probably doesn’t care who he hurts, just like Mr. Cates.
He
didn’t care that he sold Moonshadow to a bad man who whipped her and made her race, even though she wasn’t in shape.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek so I won’t cry, so the pain won’t swallow me.

“You’d better get to bed, Shortcake. You’ve got training in the morning.”

I climb back in bed and mentally run through my game plan for Saturday’s race, but as I begin to nod off, lush images from the Belmont website fill my head, flooding my dreams with color.

• • •

Friday afternoon after I’ve visited Star in the pasture, I meet Gael in his office in the manor house to watch racing film.

I’ve never been to the second floor of the manor house before, but I know from Cindy that Mr. Goodwin’s office is up here. She vacuums and dusts it every day.

I swallow as I pass large, closed, double wooden doors. I peek inside the stall manager’s and the estate manager’s offices, finding them hard at work on their computers. A glass chandelier that looks like it’s from France or something blinds me with its bling. Mr. Goodwin’s personal assistant is typing on the computer and talking on the phone. She points me down the hall. While looking for Gael, I discover that Jack has his own office too.

What seventeen-year-old has his own office?

I peek inside to find him talking on the phone about a stud fee deal and flipping through a large book at the same time. His office is very…clean. And tasteful. Jack has a flat-screen TV that’s muted and tuned to the horse-racing network. Pictures of his family and friends cover the walls, along with famous horses and horsemen, including an autographed photo of Ron Turcotte, the jockey who rode Secretariat and had over three thousand wins…until he got hurt in a race. He’s in a wheelchair now.

I leave Jack to his work and knock on the door to Gael’s office. His office is very…much the opposite of Jack’s. It’s like a giant snow globe exploded in here. Paper is everywhere. Red Bull and Diet Coke cans litter every available surface.

Gael leaps to his feet like he’s on a pogo stick. “Barrow! Sit right here.” He clears a spot for me on his sofa and plops down next to me with a remote control in his hand.

Gael rubs his cheek, looking over at me. “You ready for tomorrow?”

I clutch my knees. “I think so.”

“You’re great on a horse and great during practice, but racing in a race is a whole new ballgame. You gotta respect it. If you’re not careful and you don’t know what you’re doing on the track, you could die.”

My stomach jumps into my throat when I think of what could’ve happened the other day. What if the horse’s hoof had struck my head and not my shin? Riding a 1,200-pound animal at forty-five miles per hour is a rush. A dangerous rush.

“This footage will help you learn what to expect and know how to deal with any contingencies that might come your way,” Gael says.

He pushes play and I spend the next two hours watching races. Elite races, smaller races, really fun races, really horrific races. I want to cover my eyes when riders fall and get hurt, but that would show weakness, so I stare straight ahead, trying to keep my eye on the goal.

That’s hard after watching the Preakness Stakes where Barbaro pulled up, broke his hind right leg, and had to be euthanized.

• • •

Saturday morning, as usual, I’m up before dawn.

But today is different. Today is the annual Kentucky Downs Handicap. Normally people train for years before their first race, but Jack fast-tracked me. I hope I do okay today…I kind of feel like a poser.

Gael told me to sleep in and get my rest because I’m racing later in the day—at noon sharp. But I couldn’t stay asleep thanks to prerace jitters. I’m so jumpy, it’s like I’ve already had my coffee even though I haven’t drunk a drop. Kentucky Downs is about thirty miles north of Cedar Hill. In the past week, Kentucky Downs has held eight races. Over $1 million in purse winnings have already been given out, but today’s three races are the biggies.

Star is competing in the Juvenile Downs, a race for two-year-olds. The purse is $75,000, and the winner will make 70 percent of that, with the rest going to the runners-up. That means if Star wins, I’ll get 5 percent of $52,500. $2,625. That’s more money than I’ve seen in my entire life.

Jack is also entering Lucky Strikes in the Kentucky Turf Cup, which has a purse of $200,000. In the Goodwin world, these races are small potatoes, but Star needs a win. And I’m hoping I can help him with that. I don’t have any illusions I will win my very first race, but I pray we won’t come in dead last. I need to prove that I’ve got what it takes, that I’ve got something special.

While the Ladies Marathon race is going on, I sit on a stool in the barn, breathing in and out, talking softly to Star, who’s busy eating grain.

Then all of a sudden the Marathon must be over, because Jack appears at the stall, rubbing his hands together as he keeps his distance from Star. He’s wearing a sleek gray suit, white shirt, no tie, and cowboy boots. The no-tie look makes me tingle all over. I want to kiss the triangle of tanned skin exposed at his neck. Jesus Lord, all this anxiety over the race is making me a perv.

“Hey.” Jack takes off his hat to muss his hair, looking everywhere but at me. “You feeling good?”

“Pretty good. A little tired. I’ve never been in the sweatbox before.” The morning of a race, most jockeys go in this super hot room called a sweatbox and sweat all the extra fluid out so they’ll weigh less for the race. “It was so relaxing I felt like I was on a beach somewhere.”

Jack laughs softly. When he finally meets my gaze, his blue eyes pierce into mine, and I wish we could have a repeat of last weekend’s kissing session. That would help me relax. A glance at his lips makes it hard to tell where my stress from the race ends and the sexual tension begins.

“You’ve read all the notes Gael gave you? You know all about the other horses, their jockeys, and their trainers?”

“Yes.” I straighten my posture, trying to look impressive, which is hard when Jack stands a full foot taller than me. “I’m all set.”

Jack blows air out and rubs his hands together again. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Thanks for letting me do it,” I say softly.

“You look good in the Goodwin colors,” he says, scanning my black and green riding silks.

“I look like a damned Slytherin.”

He laughs, looks around, and takes a step closer, wetting his lips. He gently pecks my cheek, sending a jolt up my legs and down my arms and between my thighs.

“I got you something for good luck,” he whispers in my ear. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a purple swirl lollipop.

“Yaaaaaay.” I take the sucker, and before I know what I’m doing, I slip my arms around his waist. He sucks in a breath. Clenches up.

Crap. He doesn’t want this. I take a step back, pissed at myself. I can’t believe I gave in to instinct.

“I’m sorry.” My cheeks are burning.

He looks away. “I need to tell you something. There’s gonna be press here today. Press specifically for you.”

“Me?” I blurt.

“Yes, you.” His mouth slides into a small smile. “You’re a big deal. This race is nothing compared to some of the big Kentucky races, but still. You don’t see girl jockeys all that often at races in general. Especially ones so young.”

I was already nervous enough. I drag a hand down my red braid and bring it to my mouth to chew on it. I pull a deep breath.

“Thanks for telling me,” I say. “I’d hoped you were gonna tell me something else.”

“Oh yeah? What?”

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head quickly.

He gently pulls the braid from my mouth, grasping my hand for a sec. The heat from his skin soothes my nerves and makes me want to dive right back into his arms. Jesus. When did I become such a horn dog?

That’s when Rory brings Echoes of Summer back from her race and Jack disappears. Rory looks from me to where Jack vanished and starts beat-boxing, making music like you’d hear on his video game,
Ho Down in Hoochieville
. “Bowchicawowow.”

I flip him off.

I pause and breathe deeply as I unwrap the sucker and stick it in my mouth.

“How’d she do?” I ask as Rory pushes Echoes of Summer into a stall.

“Third place,” he says, grinning. “Not bad for an old lady.”

I pat her muzzle. “She’s only seven. I’d hate to hear what you call me when I’m not around.”

Rory yanks a wrinkled booklet from his back pocket. “Hey, I got the race program. Your name’s in it!”

I dash over to him, stick the sucker Jack gave me in my mouth, and thumb through the program. There I am.

I close the program and cradle it against my chest.

And before I know it, before I can get my heartbeat under control, Rory has Star’s tack thrown over his shoulder and we’re heading up to the paddock, passing by other barns and the drug-testing pavilion. I finish the lollipop during our walk and throw the stick away.

Dad, Gael, Jack, and Mr. Goodwin meet us there as we’re securing the colt’s saddle.

Dad squeezes my shoulder. “You know you don’t have to do this, right? We can always send Townsend out instead.”

I tighten my gloves, glancing around at the other jockeys. They all look relaxed, chatting and joking with their trainers and owners. I blow air out through my mouth and bounce on my toes.

“I got this,” I tell Dad. Jack and Rory exchange a smile at my words.

I mount Star and we make our way out onto the track. Kentucky Downs is old and the grandstands are small like the bleachers at the Hundred Oaks softball field; most spectators are hanging around the fence and on the infield. Or they’re inside at the casino.

The cheering starts the minute Star begins to trot across the grass. A bunch of reporters are taking pictures of me. The flashes make me see spots. I hope Star isn’t scared of cameras. I groan, praying my picture won’t accompany a front-page article on how I blew it at Kentucky Downs.

Dad appears to my right, riding an Appaloosa pony. Star sniffs the pony and rams his head into Dad’s side, acting bratty.

“Don’t hesitate to pull up if anything goes wrong,” Dad says, and I nod, chewing on my braid. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I reply.

When it’s post time, I meet two hands at the starting gate and they push Star inside the fourth position, locking the gate behind us. Dad disappears off the track.

Seven furlongs. Just under a mile. I can do this. I breathe in and out. In and out. In and out. The crowd cheers. It sounds like pressing a seashell to my ear and listening to the dull roar of an ocean.