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Year 29 - Daybreak in Texas
Original article written by The Steward posted 13 years 0 weeks agoLow fog clung gently to the gold-tinted trees surrounding the 1-mile training track. The sun was coming up red, casting purple shadows into the mist. A lone horse galloped by, steam blowing from his nostrils in tandem with his magnificent strides. His rider sat still in the saddle and didn’t make a sound, using his hands to communicate with the horse’s mouth.
Emily Shields leaned against the fence, drinking in the scene and feeling blissfully at peace. Try as she might, she could not imagine a more tranquil moment. There were no cars on the road paralleling the backstretch of the track, the birds were only just starting to chirp, and the burly dark bay colt was coming down the stretch again, his neck bowed, his muscles straining. Emily could feel the tension draining out of her at the sight.
“A son of Precipice?” someone asked from behind.
The unexpected human voice made Emily jump against the rail. She whipped around and saw a short, lean woman in a pressed gray suit standing there, holding a stack of notebooks. She looked shockingly clean and chipper for 5:30 in the morning; in fact, the word that sprang to Emily’s mind was “fresh.”
“Can I help you?” Emily asked, trying not to sound terse. She didn’t mind visitors at the farm, in fact she welcomed them, but she’d been having such a nice moment!
“Oh… yes, hi,” the woman offered her hand; Emily shook it tentatively. “I’m Anna… Anna Doolittle. Well, my friends just call me Liza.”
“Nice to meet you, Anna… Liza, sorry,” Emily corrected. “And yes, that is a son of Precipice. How did you know?”
“Well, I know you still have one on the farm,” Anna admitted, gesturing to one of the notebooks. She looked sheepish. “Frankly, I’d be able to tell that colt anywhere. Even without seeing him before, he’s built exactly like his brother.”
At that, Emily broke into a grin. “Indeed, he does,” she agreed.
They were quiet for a moment as the colt pranced off the track, throwing his head and side stepping through the morning sunbeams. Emily turned to follow the colt back to the barn, and then paused, gesturing for the woman to follow. “So, what can I do for you, Liza?”
They started walking towards the barn, and Liza seemed to be weighing her words as they walked. “Mrs. Shields, I’ve come to ask you for a job.”
Emily stifled a snort. “No offense, but you’re not exactly dressed to walk hots or anything.”
“No, it’s not that,” Liza shook her head. “Well, let me just show you.”
They stopped beside a tow ring where hotwalkers were circling horses blanketed in black sheets with blue trim. Liza considered the horses for a moment, then took a breath. “That one,” she pointed, “is by Declare or Desist. Her dam is a half sister to Don’t Hesitate, the Derby winner, bred here, of course. So far that mare has been disappointing, but there’s so much stamina in her pedigree that you keep throwing her to quick routers, such as Declare or Desist. Frankly, I think she’d fit much better with a long router like Savvy.” She barely took a breath, and pointed again. “That one is a Colorado colt. He is distinctive because of that funky snip on his face. His dam ran on the synthetics but she’s bred for turf, so you aren’t sure where to send her. You’ve been sending her to multi surface stallions just to get something that works. And that one,” a smile split her face as she pointed at a bay colt with a white face, “that one, the Lofty Goals colt? He has an A plus nick.”
“Excuse me?” Emily said, thrown at the last bit.
“I have a nicking system,” Liza explained. “I’ve determined how to rate a nick that goes back three generations.”
“Interesting,” Emily said, her eyebrows raised, genuinely meaning it. “What else can you do?”
“Well, I often advise people on who they should buy,” Liza admitted. “I learned the game and how to look at animals from my grandfather in the West Country in England.”
Emily’s head snapped up. “You aren’t related to the Doctor Doolittle, are you?”
“What does it matter?” Liza snapped, a little angrily. Emily took a step back in surprise. “Anyway,” Liza continued, smoothing her expression, “I’d like to help you out as your official bloodstock agent. I could look up nicks for you and rate any crosses you have in mind. I could encourage people to buy certain yearlings from you. I could also advise you on which mares you should buy to add to your impressive operation.”
Emily considered this momentarily. “Well, I’d love to talk more about it, but frankly, I don’t have time right now. I’m about to go to Texas for a week, it’s the Steward’s Cup you know.”
“Oh, I know, that’s why I wanted to catch you beforehand,” Liza agreed.
They were silent for a moment, and a groom led out a stunning black colt with a white stripe and four white stockings. Liza sucked in a breath. “That’s the Do Something colt, isn’t it?” Emily nodded, mute, while Liza kept muttering under her breath. “Do Something… now there’s an incredibly bred and underrated sire.”
Emily turned to her quickly. “Can you start the first of the year?”
A slow smile split Liza’s face, cause it to appear much more youthful despite the depths of knowledge dancing behind her eyes. She extended her hand.
--
A.R. Roberts stood, his fists balled at his hips. Out of the fourteen horses going to the post, he only had eyes for his three. They jumped out at him, as if they were the only horses in the race. All three old campaigners had ankles the size of softballs, but they were impervious to any age-related aches and pains as they marched towards the start.
A.R., possibly the greatest steeplechase trainer of all time, crossed his fingers inside his fists.
--
Arthur Cutler could barely draw a breath, let alone keep his eyes focused. They kept squeezing shut, then peeking open again. His young bay mare led the post parade for the Steeplechase.
Nearly three thousand miles away, Ronda Figal was watching the race on television, and felt exactly the same way about exactly the same horse.
--
Lucas Davenport’s seat was on a balcony overlooking both the finish line and the winner’s circle. His pint-sized bay mare arched her neck, her mane flowing off easily. He couldn’t remember ever seeing such a magnificent sight as this; fourteen warriors parading to the post, splashes of brown, gray, red and black against a lush, bright green backdrop, the sparkling silks of their riders adding to the rainbow.
Steampunk Vixen twisted her head around, gazing at the grandstand. She seemed to be say, “I’ve got this.”
--
Chani Ruzzo also had three horses in the race, but her friends and family in attendance wouldn’t have been able to guess. She had eyes only for one, a dark bay, white-faced mare. With a bitter pang, Chani remembered Wishing Starfire’s near miss in the chase. After 2 5/8 miles, it had come down to a half length separating her favorite mare from immortality.
“Come on, Angel,” Chani whispered. “Do this for your mommy.”
--
Three trainers’ nine horses made up most of the field. Lee Key Shipyard adjusted her hat and peered through binoculars, eyeing the horses lining up for the start. Star Conquest’s solid black coat stood out against the picturesque setting. He half reared, pinning his ears and uttering a short, sharp whinny. Lee Key couldn’t hear it, but she could feel it.
“Settle down, tough guy,” she muttered. “It’s a long race.”
--
“Just get him away cleanly,” Anthony Farrel begged jockey Robert Harrington aloud. “Get him clear, go to the lead, and run away with it. Just like the last three Grade 1’s.”
He knew the rider couldn’t hear him, but he hoped that somehow, Pigeon Island could. The flashy gray was such a logical contender for the end-of-year SIMMY Award, as long as he could control the pace from the outset here…
--
Alex Puderbaugh smiled over at Matthew McMahon, but he didn’t smile back. She felt a mild bond with him, knowing that both of them had outside chances in the race with horses coming off losses. Both of them had much better chances over in Texas for the Thursday and Friday Steward’s Cup races. In fact, they, like many of the other horsemen in attendance, were booked on the same flight out that very night.
The fourteen horses sprung away from their line up start, bounding towards the first jump. The crowd roared…
--
The fact that there were no clouds and thus no rain did little to cheer Chris Everett, who shivered under a heavy jacket at five in the morning. Behind her, Bad Traffic stuck his kind face over the webbing, looking about eagerly for his morning meal. “At least it will be dry,” she muttered to him, smoothing his black mane down along his neck.
Bad Traffic whickered, then tossed his head up and down viciously, demanding breakfast.
--
Kenzie Larkin took Cryosphere’s velvet black muzzle in her hands and kissed it squarely between the nostrils. The gentle filly whuffed softly, then raised her head and looked expectantly down the shed row. Horses filed past in the dim light, but no tack lay across the filly’s webbing.
“Just cold walking today, big girl,” Kenzie said quietly. “Gotta save your energy for the race.” Cryosphere blew out a sigh of air and pulled her head back, disappearing into the stall.
--
Hit Shot walked sedately behind his hotwalker, his upper lip puffed up around the chain across his gums. He wore a blanket in the colors of trainer Nmc Obara, one of five stabled in the white washed shedrow. He willingly followed his stablemate, Lift My Magic, his hooves clopping serenely across the packed dirt. The race was a mere eight hours away.
--
“You are the prettiest filly I’ve ever seen,” Regina Moore cooed, emphasizing the ‘you.’ Inspired Nevada, a bright bay with a big star, raised her head haughtily, seeming to agree. “How about you run back to your spring form?” Regina continued hopefully. “None of what happened over the summer, okay?”
Inspired Nevada tossed her head and snorted, as if to say, “Who me? Never!” Regina clipped the shank to the filly’s halter and led her out for her bath.
--
Christy Williams paced outside of her shedrow awaiting the van. It was nearly 5:30, well past time for it to show up. She finally saw, to her great relief, a pair of high headlights rolling up the road. The 8-stall horse van stopped beside a loading ramp and Christy hurried forward to meet it.
“What took so long!?” she asked the driver, wringing her hands in anticipation.
“Precious cargo, gotta drive slowly,” the driver answered, smiling.
--
“Is this leg hot? I think it’s hot,” Talia Ichinari gasped, running her fingers down Ivory Crown’s right front tendon yet again.
“If you keep touching it, it’s going to get hot,” the groom responded, snatching up the lead shank and leading the filly away. “Friction and all that.”
The filly walked off soundly, her head raised and her stride solid, but Talia’s heart was thundering in her chest. Only seven more hours remained…
--
Defend Your Rights stood patiently, his right fore extended in front of him and resting on the farrier’s knee. “He looks good,” the farrier called over to the trainer, Lee Cara, who stood eyeing the dark bay colt.
“I’m not too worried about the other boys,” Lee said, speaking aloud mostly to calm his own nerves. “It’s that filly…”
--
Sun Flare half reared, her ears sweeping back, and she whinnied frantically.
“Easy, girl, it’s just a hat,” Ara Davies called, carefully retrieving the feathered headgear with a wide brim, which had just been blown back off her face. “I got it to look pretty while in the winner’s circle with you!” The chestnut daughter of Magician moved off, her hind legs straining with tension, as the groom sweettalked her into rounding the corner. Ara replaced the hat upon her head and imagined the classy filly charging home in front, defeating a field of older males.
--
Infinite Glory dozed quietly in his stall, his legs tucked under him. Anna Benson tiptoed by, knowing that if he saw her he would clamber to his feet to get a treat. Unfortunately, she had a strict no treats on race day rule, at least before a trip to the winner’s circle.
Afterwards, Infinite Glory could have all the mints he wanted!
--
At 7 am, the sun was just high enough above the horizon to start warming up the desperately cold Illinois air. Aidan O Brien huddled deeper into his blue windbreaker and as Pathfork got her bath.
“Get the blanket,” he called to the groom, “it’s going to be a cold one.” He couldn’t stand the thought of the filly wasting any energy by shivering.
--
“When is your flight?” Danny Warren asked, rolling leg wraps along the wall as he’d first learned to do as a lad a small stable yard.
“8 pm,” Janena Olson answered, “I think a bunch of people are on it.” She considered before adding, “Of course, that’s just the flight to Texas. Some are headed to New Jersey.”
“Imagine those who are flying to all four states this week,” Danny said, shaking his head. “I’m going to drive down to Texas, myself.”
Janena nodded absently. “I wanted to go with the van to take this girl home, but I need to get to the other horses down at Single Star.” Behind her, Poisoned Apple peered over her shoulder, curious.
--
“LOOKIN PERFECT A PERFECT CHOICE” read the headline article on the front page of the Feature Race news. Murray McNickle couldn’t believe his luck – in a year when the Synthetic Juvenile Fillies had such nice horses, his horse would be the second choice, and he knew things would only get better as the distances increased.
--
Carole Hanson hovered in the bathroom, gripping the sink and staring at herself in the mirror. “Calm down,” she urged herself. “The race isn’t for another half a day.”
The mirror was cracked and caked with dirt, but outside in the shedrow, Snowy Sunday was whole, sound and sparkling clean. She took a deep breath and returned to her barn chores.
--
“Hi, is this Mike Bryant?” a female voice asked over the line.
Mike shifted his cell phone to his left shoulder. “Yeah?”
“I was wondering if Staple would still be $20,000 next year?” the woman asked. “I’ve got a stakes winning mare I’d like to book to him…”
“You’re gonna have to call back in a few hours,” Mike said. He eyed Ignite Above, a son of Staple, resting easily behind his webbing. “We might win today.”
--
Ramey Furney barked ordered, hustling the stablehands to finish their chores before 9 am. “I want to go out to breakfast,” she snapped at them, “and I’ll take all of you with me if you finish!”
The grooms jumped at the chance for free breakfast, even if it consisted of fake-tasting scrambled eggs from the track kitchen. A free breakfast was better than no breakfast.
--
“No Sun Flare in the race,” Marzy Dotes told the stripe-faced filly La Belle Dame. “You don’t have to worry about her catching you at the wire.”
Without the beast of the division in the Synthetic Matron, Dotes’ filly had a chance. The four-time allowance winner bobbed her head, as if to celebrate Sun Flare’s absence. “Who knows,” Marzy added thoughtfully. “Maybe you’ll stay in training next year and become a tri surface winner?”
--
Madelene Gilbert moved serenely through the rows of tables in the small room towards the back of the track kitchen. She felt on top of the world, the knowledge of her colt’s readiness bolstered her confidence.
But then she saw Justin Turner at the farthest table, the one she’d been headed towards. He looked smug as he sipped his coffee and read the paper without a care in the world. Would her three-year-old colt outkick his sophomore filly? Would older horses catch them both?
Justin felt her eyes on him, and he looked up to see who it was, giving a half smile. Madelene smiled back, but then left the kitchen. Her appetite was gone.
--
Dan Gordon set his hand on the massive bay colt’s cheek and looked him in the eye. The hulking colt looked back unflinchingly, both quiet and mentally preparing for battle. He knew what the lack of water and the limited hay net meant: race day. Dr. Ghazi would go postward as a heavy favorite.
“They’re about to see something they’ve never seen before,” Dan whispered. He couldn’t control his grin.
--
Franky Dam folded his arms and looked down the barn aisle. Fourteen heads peered back expectantly, awaiting their evening meal. “Are you all going to win tomorrow?” Franky asked them, listening out of one ear to the sound of grain being measured into buckets.
To his amusement and mild irritation, two horses stuck their heads back behind the webbing, disappearing from view as if to say, “not happening, boss!” Franky grumbled, “Don’t you hide!” at them, only half joking. “I was serious!”
--
Geir Larsen sat on a tack box between two side-by-side stalls. Tap In and Joie De Vie both examined the training chart he held in his hands. All of the squares were filled in except the last column, which simply spelled RACE DAY down the side.
“I guess this is it,” he said to the horses. They bobbed their heads, agreeing.
--
The Meadowfields was run down, dark, and miserable looking, which suited Angus Clab’s mood quite well. His seven Standardbreds set for the Tuesday Steward’s Cup were ready for their races, but that didn’t mean that Angus felt ready. What if he’d jogged Mack’s Money too far? What if he came away completely empty-handed?
“Knock it off,” Angus told himself, shaking his head. “You’re from Boston. Let’s show these New Jersey people what’s up.”
--
Kyasuriin Matsumoto couldn’t believe she’d agreed to do this – and on race day no less. She stood outside of the run down Barn 13 at The Meadowfields at 7 am on Tuesday morning. In one hand she held the shank of Little Drunk, a long-faced black filly with a roman nose. In the other, she held Very Tipsy, a bay twin of the first filly.
“Look over here!” the photographers called, directing her attention. Someone crinkled a wrapper to get Very Tipsy’s ears up.
--
Kris Rain grasped Misschief Managed’s halter pulled her head close. “Are you going to let me pull your mane?”
The filly threw her head back, moving away, her nostrils flaring. Kris considered chasing after her, or maybe twitching her to get it done, but then smiled and stepped out of the stall. “Don’t worry, pretty girl,” she said in a sing-song voice. “No one will touch your flowing mane!”
--
Patrick O’Malley took a long sip of coffee and changed the channel on the TV. The local racing network was playing a replay of the previous day’s Steward’s Cup races in Illinois, and he wanted no part of watching it, having witnessed the races live.
His cell phone buzzed, signaling a text message, then started lighting up more and more, buzzing until it nearly fell off the desk. He frowned, confused, then checked the clock. 10 am, New Jersey time. This would be the assistant trainer in Alaska with the claims for the day.
--
“So how do you think your filly will do today?” the kindly reporter asked, smiling politely and folding her hands over her lap.
Jason Bourne eyed her, suspicious of her motives, and finally decided she was just fishing for a good story. “Well,” he answered, feeling truthful, “I’d really like to win one of these things.”
--
Eugene Hoss twitched the reins against Buy Another Round’s back, and the two-year-old colt stepped up his walk heading off the track and back to the barn. Just a little lung opener, Eugene thought, just enough to have him fresh for the race in a few hours.
The colt pranced on his way back to the barn, tugging at the bit. He wanted another turn. “Later, big guy,” Eugene called up to him. “Save it for later.”
--
With 11 Steward’s Cup entrants in New Jersey alone, Larry Burndorf should have felt confident. Instead, he was still kicking himself at forgetting to nominate his best filly. Here it was, the biggest day of the year for his stable, and he would always wonder if it could have been a little better.
“Mr. Burndorf, your limousine is here,” a voice buzzed over the hotel room intercom.
“Excellent,” Larry murmured, tapping his index fingers together. He stood up, gathered his suit jacket, and headed for the door.
--
Laura Cameron ran the comb carefully in one direction, then the other, making checks across Adalia’s flank. Unlike most hulking Standardbreds with long, heavy heads, Adalia was a little filly with a daintier countenance. Laura wanted her lovely filly to look the part while warming up and racing in the Juvenile Fillies Pace.
Adalia turned her head and examined Laura’s work, then went back to nosing at the wall. The only Standardbred looking bit about her were the oversized ears. Laura gave one a gentle squeeze before moving over to the other side.
--
Down the aisle, Chris Reed was checking over the tack for his two juvenile fillies, I Want Money and Everything Counts. They were hooked to the backs of their stalls, awaiting their trip to the post, only hours away.
“Hey, Chris, do you have an extra set of boots?” asked a strong, clear voice from down the aisle. Chris Reed turned to see Chris Fielder’s head sticking out from behind the lid of a tack box. “Mine apparently didn’t make the trip.”
“Sure, Chris,” Chris Reed said, rummaging around in his own tack trunk. “Just don’t beat me in the race, okay?”
--
Sean Furney found his seat in the grandstand and surveyed his view. The seat was above the wire and slightly before it, but up high enough that he could see the whole track. He stared down at the wire and wondered what it would look like when his Veiled Secret came rolling towards the finish in the Oaks Trot.
It would look quite nice, he imagined, especially if she finished ahead of her arch rival, Cash Money Honey…
--
Mike Prevost was about to help Walter Russo into the sulky behind his two-year-old pacing filly when he noticed a crowd of people screaming his name. He looked up and noticed they all had neon yellow shirts on, so blinding he could barely look.
“We’re the Stick of Butter fan club!” one girl screamed.
“We love Stick of Butter!” another yelled. They began cheering so loud that Stick of Butter snorted uneasily under Mike’s soothing hand.
“Bunch of weirdos,” Mike muttered, turning back to the driver.
--
Brianna McKenzie couldn’t believe her own ears, but sure enough, she was having a conversation with a racehorse. “Remember when you won that confidence booster earlier in the year?” she asked him. Briar Showstopper seemed to be listening intently, watching his trainer. “Since then, you’ve been a rat,” she informed him. “How about you step it up today?”
A stocky gray gelding in full tack was led by, heading for the paddock. Brianna pointed at Kenneth Gordon’s Thrillhouse and then looked back at Briar Showstopper. “You see that horse? He has won three straight stakes including a Grade 1 since his confidence booster. That should be you.”
--
Jarrn Shikage felt emotion welling up in her eyes as she walked over behind the stocky nine-year-old mare Kick It Up a Notch, who was heading for the track for the final time. The defending champion of the race was still going strong in her twilight years,
“Lookin’ good, Jarrn,” Joe Smitt called, walking the opposite direction to collect his mare Pc Evil Cash, who would be racing in an hour.
“Thanks, Joe,” Jarrn replied softly. Kick It Up a Notch flicked an ear back, listening to the familiar voice. “Please, girl, make it a million,” Jarrn begged.
--
Adela Nowak stepped nervously out of the taxi, glancing around at the two white tents and the red carpet leading towards them. From this distance, she could barely see the silvery lake behind the tents, but knew it must be there, as the invitation had promised the availability of boats to take out on the water. Lamps blazed in the darkness, and once she rounded the corner she could see candles lining the walls of the tent inside.
“Come, join the fun!” Chelsey Craig squealed, motioning Adela to step inside. “The food is over there,” she pointed, “and the DJ is just revving up the music!”
Adela smiled at Chelsey, feeling more relaxed. “I was worried I wouldn’t know too many people here,” she admitted, “since I came alone.”
“Are you kidding?” Chelsey asked, loudly, over the music. “Everyone is here!”
She danced off, bopping her head with the music, while Adela took in Bryan Doolittle standing by the punch bowl, eyeing it dubiously. While he debated, Hope Bentley walked over and laid a hand on his arm.
“You okay, Bryan?” she asked, concerned.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Bryan said, snapping out of his trance. “It’s just that I’ve already had three glasses, and it seems a bit much to have a fourth.”
“It’s a party!” Hope cheered. “Have as much as you want!”
Meagan D’amoure seemed to be hosting the dinner, Adela noticed. She looked spectacular in a pink dress made of floating material and sported dazzling jewels on the front.
“Wow, Mea, you look AMAZING,” Leigh Ann Anderson gushed. Leigh Ann was wearing a sleek blue dress with a white waist sash.
“Thanks,” Meagan said slowly, “but frankly, I want to rip this off my body right now. It’s disgusting, but they told me I couldn’t host while wearing plaid.”
“Jerks,” Leigh Ann agreed, grinning.
Jennifer Francis walked past, holding a chocolate cupcake. She paused almost to the table, turned around, and went back to get a vanilla one.
Kay O. Johnson hovered near a poster board advertising a season share to a handsome, newly retired Paint stallion. She was considering buying in, but was trying to justify the cost, as well as the fact that she stood four of her own Paint studs. In the end, she decided to pass.
Loree Ethell was sitting alone at one table, picking at her elaborate, fancy dinner, and was soon joined by Jacob Herman. Jacob introduced himself, and the two quickly got into a discussion about Quarter Horses.
Out on the dock, Helena Martikainen chatted with Laurann Peek and Lynn Clark, holding a glass of champagne in one hand, a silver bracelet glittering off the other.
“Where are you from?” Laurann asked with her distinctive southern, Kentucky accent.
“Finland,” Helena answered, surprising both women.
“You came all the way here to train Appaloosas?” Lynn asked in surprise.
“Sure,” Helena smiled, “you came from Canada didn’t you?”
They all laughed, their voices echoing over the peaceful, still lake.
--
The sky opened up, spilling rain all over Los Angelitos. The raceway soon turned sloppy, but Ian Nicastrin wasn’t too concerned. He knew the rain was scheduled to stop and the winds were supposed to roll in, which would likely leave the track muddy but no longer slick.
Behind his purple and black wedding, Forsterite dozed. The handsome chestnut Arabian seemed oblivious to the fact that he would be racing for a large purse in only a few hours. In the next stall, the nine-year-old Goshenite gazed out at the rain. The large, bulky horse would be done with racing by the end of the day. The thought made Ian irrationally emotional.
Just a few stalls down, a stripe-faced black Arabian mare peered over the shoulder of Katie Grenier, her dedicated trainer. Katie was busy polishing the mare’s race-day bridle, but she felt Ian’s eyes on her and looked up.
The two exchanged an understanding smile.
--
Bryan Helmer laid down on his hotel bed, his head swimming. His Corny Fuse had run a huge third in the Appaloosa Championship, and now all he wanted was to go to sleep while contemplating what to do with the paycheck.
As soon as his head hit the pillow, Bryan saw visions of spotted horses storming through his dreams.
--
Single Star Park seemed surprisingly deserted on Thursday morning, a mere five hours before the first post of the day. Danielle Tilley didn’t mind at all, in fact, the peaceful morning seemed a relief after the hectic week. Most of the juveniles weren’t going to the track that morning with the early post time, and it would be another hour before the older horses on the grounds hit the track.
Danielle stepped into the shedrow which she shared with two other trainers who had a lone entrant in the 29th Steward’s Cup. Heather Conn’s runner, The Black Album, stuck a dark head over the webbing as Danielle passed. The trainer rubbed the filly’s forehead before moving to her own horse, Chocolate Rush, a tall handsome chestnut whose undefeated record stood out in a wide-open Juvenile Sprint field.
Los Vargas stepped into the aisle, humming. He smiled at Danielle, still humming, and went to see his colt, Starspangled. More trainers, such as Jack Heissenbuttel and Matt Douglas, soon joined him, and all at once the shedrow was bustling. Horses were being led out to the track from other barns, their hooves clicking against the concrete.
Mundell Racing watched intently as a groom led his nearly undefeated colt, Plot of Stars, out of the stall and down the shedrow. The track veterinarian waited nearby, watching the horses walk and jog up and down the aisle. After Plot of Stars came Look Electric for Nicky Morgan, who jogged the pretty filly by himself. Both horses were given a clean bill of health.
A shrill whinny broke through the quiet camaraderie of the barn, and suddenly a leggy black colt and a whisp-thin trainer rounded the corner, playing tug of war. The trainer, Robin Tan, swept dark hair out of her eyes while the colt, Look Guys, bounced up and down while shrieking his joy at being lose of the stall. “Save it for the racetrack!” Robin demanded, shanking him hard.
--
Peihe Sun stared hard at Bridges to Cross. She felt silly talking to a horse, but the diminutive bay colt needed to know she meant business. “Ten million dollars,” she reminded him. “That is how much you cost. That is a lot. You need to win today.”
The handsome, royally bred bay stared back, uncomprehending. He would be a longshot going into the Juvenile, a race where he should have been the favorite, if he had paned out as a two-year-old.
--
Roberto Prieto hated being in Texas.
He would have much preferred to be in Japan with his star three-year-old, Celebrating, but instead he was in Texas, preparing the undefeated Fate Prevails for the Steward’s Cup Juvenile Turf. Even if he won, Fate Prevails wouldn’t be nearly as sought after as Celebrating, whose entire career was merely a prelude to a future as a stallion.
Also undefeated and also in the Juvenile Turf was Jonathan Bolt’s Afraid to Deal. Bolt was stabled with his two Steward’s Cup horses across the way, closer to the track. He had a grand sweeping view of the clubhouse turn and of the horses jogging around the outer rail. The sun cast a golden glow over the racetrack. The horsemen and women of Single Star Park didn’t taken any time to appreciate the beauty; Jonathan spoke rapidly on his cell phone, calling the farm back home. Afraid to Deal dozed at the back of the stall.
--
Leonard Beagle looked at the two matching purple saddlecloths hanging over the brick outer half-wall of his barn. The white lettering on the towels read 1 and 1A. Behind him, two matching fillies, Winstar and Starspin, stared alertly out of their stalls. Nearby, Wished Away munched on her hay net, content because she wasn’t racing for another day.
Leonard couldn’t ask for a better group of fillies. Pride swelled through his heart.
--
The party venue was already hopping when Nuber Cano and Nathan Sellers walked in. The bar was lined with the trainers drowning their nerves in margaritas, shots or soda. The two guys smiled at all the action. Nathan pointed over to Peter Gleason and Nuber nodded as he left to go chat with him.
Peter was happy to invite Nathan into the group he was chatting with. Steph Lohnro , Shiandra Cattari and Mike Eaton all held up a drink in welcome. They started debating the Distaff field and were assuring Peter that his Oaks winning filly was in with a huge chance.
The mechanical bull, which was the main reason Steward’s Cup President Emily Shields had chosen this particular spot for the party, was whirring to life as Lauren Haggerty had her arm in the air. She was riding surprisingly well for her state of inebriation.
"I knew she would stay on!" Doug Kidwell shouted over the blasting music at Eric Nalbone. "You owe me another drink."
Eric just waved the waitress over and ordered them another round; he had merely wanted an excuse to buy them another round. Lisa Strummer danced over with Rob Kilborn on her arm and they stopped to watch Lauren ride the bull.
"She should come down and break babies for me!" Lisa giggled imagining her Thoroughbreds trying to buck in a perfect circle like that bull. "You going next?"
Her finger landed on the surprised face of Phil Hoeflich.
"Who me?" Phil just shook his head. "The line is that way." He pointed to the right.
Rob left Lisa and jogged over to hop in the line. If Eric was buying drinks for people that rode, he was willing to risk the slight humiliation.
--
"Come on!!" Skippy Bowen was dragging Rose Hepburn by the arm, trying to get her to take a turn around the dance floor with him.
"But I don't know how to two step," Rose whined, reluctantly giving into his pleading and following him out.
"It's easy. If you can count to two you can do it!" He flashed her a large smile and lead her around the huge wooden floor.
Sarah Chase was attempting to dance with Tim Matthews Jr. but he was more distracted by wanting to handicap the races for the next day and kept trying to get her to help him analyze the fields as the two of them hovered close to the bar.
"You wanna talk races?" Stephen Skaggs caught some of his conversation as they swung past his barstool. It stopped Tim in his tracks; he grabbed the nearby stool and ordered a Sprite.
Sarah was off to find a more willing partner. It didn't take her long to grab Norman Architecture and pull him out to finish the song with her.
The dance floor was getting crowded as more and more people filed into the huge bar. Teri Lawrence had partnered with Mike Smith, Paul Heinrich was turning around the floor with Pati Polenchonska and Clinton Jacinto was showing Kira Ravenwood his moves.
--
Outside on the deck, the cooler Texas air was helping some worn out trainers stay awake. Stormy Peak had been up since four am getting her horses groomed. She was lounging at one of the wooden table with Tammy Fox, Sarah Bowen and Nikki Sherman. All the ladies were lamenting about their chances. The fields were full and competitive they all wished for a different year when they thought their horses would have dominated.
Robert Mertz held his beer up in greeting as Rebecca Cass stepped through the doorway to escape the heat that was building inside the bar.
"Rebecca! Seat for you, right here!" He pointed next to him. She meandered over and settled in next to him, setting her coke on the table.
"Wow, it's so much nicer out here." She looked around and noticed a few trainers in a heated discussion at the high top on the corner of the deck. She waved when they looked over.
"Hey, nice to see you! Haven't gotten a chance to chat with you all week." Laura Ferguson left the group she was talking with to sit and catch up with Rebecca.
Kristen Lexcen, Laura Smith and Kimberly Jean waved Laura off and went back to discussing the horses that were in the turf sprints that year. All the women were awed by the competition and they were listing all the reasons why they though the others horses would crush the fields.
"Girls! This is a party! Stop over analyzing things and have fun!" Paul Sellers threw his arms around Kimberly and Kristen and tried to yank them back inside.
The three women just grinned and told him they'd come find him later to buy them drinks. It seemed to satisfy Paul.
--
"I can't believe that she's up there!" Sara Kendall was clutching her stomach as her laughter almost sent her rolling to the ground.
The crowd surrounding the mechanical bull had grown exponentially and now Karen Shields was riding. She was holding on as if her life depended on it, or at least her next free drink.
"She's doing amazing!" Nick Gilmore raised her glass to the woman as the buzzer sounded and the crowd cheered her triumph.
"Hope this is luck for the race." Karen muttered as she slid off. Her balance had been disrupted and she dropped sideways onto the mat. The crowd roared with laughter. Ever the gentleman, Matt Woolfolk leapt up onto the huge padded floor and helped her down.
"I think Eric has your drink already. He's getting quicker with the service." Matt patted her on the back as she went to collect her winnings.
"My turn!" Rachel Sadler practically flew onto the well-used piece of machinery. She'd been standing in line for what seemed like forever. "If I stay on I don't want a drink. I want Mark Geukens to ride it!"
She glanced back at Mark who waved noncommittally at her as the operator flipped the switch. As luck would have it Mark didn't have to worry after a few twists the giant beast dropped Rachel to the floor.
--
Emily Klein was coming out of the bathroom when she ran smack dab into Julie Kluesner.
"The best part in there is that there is no noise." Emily shouted.
"What?" Julie couldn't understand a word, it was like they were standing in a funnel for every bit of noise in the bar. Emily stepped right up to her ear.
"After you walk through that door it's silent."
"Excellent." Julie was ready for her ears to stop ringing.
--
"You ready for another one?" Donnie Hidalgo clanked his bear bottle against Ladonna King's. The sport’s pros had found a nice quiet corner to watch the party for awhile.
"You know me. Always ready for a good time." Ladonna just smiled. She'd been through so many parties but it didn't matter every year was a great time. Every year was something new and different. It never got old only better.