Racing Savannah

Epilogue June, eight months later

“What’s wrong with you?”

At dusk, I’m standing in Greenbriar pasture, lecturing the young filly that’s causing me all sorts of trouble. Cherry Lollipop, who Jack named after me, is a descendent of Secretariat. Lollipop should be faster than a bullet, but she’s too easily distracted. She loves chasing birds and butterflies and other fillies. One second she’ll be cantering along and the next she’s streaking off the track and into the gardens to chase a bunny rabbit. She’s also been known to terrorize a colt or two.

“You have to do better, young lady, understand?” I smooth the chestnut hair on the filly’s face. Jack plans to enter her in races starting next year, and I think she’ll be a winner. If I can get her trained up good, that is.

“What are you doing out here?”

I whip around to find Jack leaning against the white fence, wearing a tuxedo. His hair is slicked back with gel and he’s grinning. His smile speeds away with my heart.

“Just checking on Lollipop,” I say.

He opens the gate and walks over to us, scanning my dress appreciatively. I found this beautiful black gown at a thrift store in Nashville. It hugs me just right.

“My mother asked where you are,” Jack says, wrapping his hands around my waist. Our parents have sort of gotten used to the idea of us dating—they know our relationship isn’t a passing thing.

“Mom wants to introduce you to the governor’s daughters,” Jack goes on. “They want to meet the famous girl horse jockey, Savannah Barrow.”

“Oh hush.” I gaze at the white tent set up on the Goodwins’ lawn. Classical music rings across the countryside. Today is the 215th anniversary of Tennessee becoming a state, so the Goodwins are having a party. “Do we have to? I mean, we’re finally alone.”

My little sister Nina wails every time I leave her. She’s addicted to me like I’m addicted to candy. And even worse, even though she’s three months old, she likes grabbing at Jack’s cell phone. She cries every time he pockets it. I love her, but I love alone time with my boyfriend too.

His mouth lifts into a smirk. “You know the deal. I let you ride my horses, and in return you accompany me to all my boring social events.”

“No one will notice we’re gone for a few minutes,” I say, getting up on tiptoes and kissing his nose.

“May I have this dance?” Jack pulls me against his chest, right in the middle of the pasture.

Ever since I told Jack I wanted to learn to dance fancy, he loves sweeping me into his arms all over the place: between classes, at the mall, in the middle of graduation. One time at the grocery store, he twirled me into a waltz in the produce section. We glided past the lemons, people rolled their eyes at us, and he murmured in my ear, “It doesn’t matter where you dance. It’s only who you’re with.”

Laughing, we spin around in circles beneath the stars, barely avoiding a patch of manure.

Jack sweeps me into an elegant dip. “You like me.”

“You’re okay,” I tease.

“Just okay?”

I whisper how much I love him.

He weaves his hands in my curls, capturing my lips with his. “I love you too.”