Racing Savannah

Chapter 5. At the Races

Today I find out if I got the exercise boy job.

But first I have to ride a horse that doesn’t like being ridden. A horse that bucks all his riders. Sure, I had luck with him when he escaped yesterday, but can I strike the jackpot twice?

We’re at the barns at River Downs in Cincinnati, and the races start in a couple hours. Dad is standing off to the side, looking worried. I ignore him and concentrate on steadying my heartbeat. I tighten my gloves and pull a deep breath as Rory leads Star toward me. All I have to do is take Star through two warm-up laps and one at a full breeze. I can do this.

I suck in long breaths, working to rid my body of tension. If Star thinks I’m nervous, he’s gonna be scared, and I’ve gotta show him that I’m in charge.

Rory stops about ten feet from me and attempts to hold Star still, but he’s prancing and acting skittish. I charge toward Star with confidence and purpose. I rub his face and he whinnies for a sec, and then he sighs and lips my hair. I straighten his front leg so he will be easier to mount.

“You got this?” Rory asks, mimicking my dad’s expression.

“I got this,” I say, moving to the near side to mount. Rory hands me the reins, I get a leg up from him, grab the horse’s mane, throw my other leg over his back, and slip my feet into the stirrups. Star prances in a circle and jerks away from Rory, and I might go flying.

“Whoa!” I say, and Star snorts. “Whoa.”

I cluck my tongue and trot onto the practice track. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Dad joins Jack, Mr. Goodwin, and Gael in the clocker’s tower. Jack waves and whistles, and suddenly I’m not so nervous. We circle the track twice at an easy speed and then it’s time for the real show. I push the horse to a full gallop. Wind rushes against my face. We must be going forty-five miles an hour. That’s well past the speed limit on the four-lane back in Franklin.

“Go,” I shout to Star, gripping the reins tight. We fly around the track. I’m standing hunched over as I make the far turn, urging the horse faster. My guess is that Star starts slow but makes up his speed later, and now’s when it counts. “Go, Star! You got this!” Ten seconds later we cross the finish line, and I bring the colt to a jog, patting his neck and smiling my brains out.

Jack is clapping and beaming.

“Time?” I call out to Gael.

Gael rubs his chin. “1:40. It’s not completely terrible.”

I pump my fist. To hear him say it wasn’t complete shit must mean the horse did pretty well. I steer Star over to the hot-walkers ring, dismount, and hand him off to Dad.

“If he runs like this later today, he’ll win for sure,” Dad says, stroking the colt’s mane, trying to get him to calm down. Star’s ears twitch and point forward.

I get up on tiptoes to kiss my father’s cheek, making him smile. “Do you think I’ll get the job?”

“I’d wait until after the race to bring it up to Jack. He seems nervous out of his mind right now. But yeah, I’d say you’ve got the job if you want it.”

I kiss Dad’s cheek again then make my way toward the barns, my red braid bouncing against my back.

I’m super excited about Star’s prospects for today but tired as hell. I shouldn’t have stayed out past midnight when I had to get up at 5:00 a.m. for the four-hour drive. I spend the next couple of hours helping Dad and Rory in the barns, feeding the six horses and lead ponies we brought with us, keeping them calm. Exercise riders typically don’t help in the barns, but I don’t mind. I love being around horses.

When it’s time for Minerva’s race, I go with Rory to the paddock to help put her saddle on. When she’s ready, Rory goes back to the barn and I start walking Minerva in a circle. Not only does this calm her down, it’s a chance for spectators watching the race to check out the horses. They get to see which horses are looking good, which ones are moody, which ones have too many bandages on their front legs, and which ones are clearly injured.

Horses die every week at racetracks all over the country, and when I hear about it, I want to punch something. That’s the one thing about this sport that really pisses me off—seeing abused racehorses. Some owners drug horses to make them stronger, which is totally illegal. I’ve heard of people who try to drug the horses’ water, but they won’t drink it. So to make them thirsty, they gave horses a salt lick, so that they have no choice but to drink the drugged water. It’s so sad.

I keep moving Minerva around in circles. I use a rag to clean out the mare’s mouth. “Good girl,” I say with a yawn, not bothering to cover my mouth.

That’s when Jack enters the paddock, wearing that sleek gray suit, a cowboy hat, and black cowboy boots. My heart starts pounding and my mouth goes dry as he adjusts his cufflinks. I glance down at my frayed T-shirt. It has a hole in it. And is that a mustard stain?

“You did well this morning.” Jack pats Minerva’s side and walks beside me, but doesn’t say if I got the job or not.

“Thanks. Star is super, super fast. I don’t see how he could lose today.”

“Thanks, that means a lot. How’s Minerva looking?”

“Good—”

“Jack!” a girl yells.

I look up into the grandstands to see a brunette waving a large hat at him. How ridiculous. Women hardly ever wear hats unless it’s the Derby or one of the other big races.

Jack ducks out of the girl’s line of sight. “Oh shit.”

“Jesus,” I say. “That hat is huge.”

“Why do girls think giant hats look good?”

“Jack!” the girl yells again.

“Who is that?” I ask.

Jack looks physically sick. “Abby Winchester. I gotta escape!”

“That’s Abby Winchester?” I ask, squinting. “Why is she wearing that?”

“No idea,” Jack says, removing his hat and dragging a hand through his mop of hair.

“You know, I bet you could yell ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your giant hat’ and climb up to her.”

Jack laughs at my joke then groans when Abby yells his name again.

“Your girlfriend’s gonna freak out the horses.”

He gives me a look. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Then what is she?” And why does he want to escape her so bad? “Does she know you were with Kelsey last night?”

Jack stares at me for a long moment. Fear rushes through me. Why the hell did I ask that? Who am I to question my boss? We might attend the same parties, but he’s the owner’s son and I’m cleaning out his horse’s mouth.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Jack keeps looking at me. “Kelsey and I just hang out sometimes…it’s nothing serious. I’m going to check on Star.” He disappears from the paddock in the direction of the barns.

Minerva nudges my face with her nose, whinnying like she’s worried about me.

“I’m okay,” I tell her, exhaling deeply. “I’m okay.”

The announcer announces that it’s ten minutes to post time. Bryant Townsend mounts Minerva, and I head over to the fence so I can collect her after she finishes the race.

Rory joins me at the edge of the track to watch. “$100,000 guaranteed purse on this one.”

“I know,” I reply, grasping the white fence, white-knuckled.

If Minerva wins today, Mr. Goodwin will be $100,000 richer, and Rory says he tends to give good bonuses to the grooms, exercise boys, and trainers who work with his horses. Mr. Cates never did things like that. One point for Mr. Goodwin.

“I could sure use the money for college applications,” Rory says. “They’re expensive. Like, some of them are thirty-five bucks apiece.”

“Damn. I didn’t know that. Do you know where you’re applying yet?”

Rory lifts a shoulder, staring out at the track. “I’m thinking UTK. They have a good theater program. But I doubt I’ll get any big scholarships like my brother Will did.”

I don’t totally relate, considering I’m not going to college, but I hurt for my friend.

Last night during the grand tour of Franklin, Rory confessed that most of the Whitfields’ money goes toward taking care of his autistic nine-year-old brother. Special schooling doesn’t come cheap, especially when farms are declining all over the country. Rory’s older brother gave up attending a fancy college so they could afford special schooling.

“What happens if you can’t afford college?” I ask. “Are you just gonna keep working on your screenplays or take over Whitfield Farms like Jack is gonna take over Cedar Hill?”

“I can’t do it,” Rory says quietly.

“Hmm?”

“I can’t end up like my parents. You know, struggling with our farm. We haven’t broken even in two years. I don’t ever want to go through this when I’m older and have kids or whatever…”

“But who’s gonna run the farm? Your brother, Will?”

“Frankly I don’t care who runs it. It’s a black hole.”

“But the farm’s been in your family since the Civil War!”

“I know that, but I’ve gotta do what’s best for me. Some things aren’t meant to last.”

“But your family—”

“Would you drop it?” he hisses. He clutches the fence and I suck in a deep breath, staring at the scoreboard.

“I’m sorry,” Rory says after a moment, giving me a quick, sad smile. “Just ignore your dick friend over here.”

“It’s okay,” I say quietly, resting a hand on his arm. “I understand.” But I don’t. So his family has had a few bad seasons. So what? I’m sure it’ll pick up. Family’s too important to give up on them. Even if I’m annoyed that Dad got his girlfriend pregnant, I can’t imagine leaving them high and dry.

Minerva wins her race against other fillies and mares, which means that Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin, Jack, Shelby, Bryant, and Gael go to the winner’s circle and have their picture made with the horse.

When Bryant dismounts, Jack hands Minerva off to Rory so he can hot-walk her and lead her back to her stall. “I want you to watch Star’s race with me,” Jack says. “For good luck.”

I nod. Mrs. Goodwin and Shelby disappear back to their box, but Mr. Goodwin stays put against the fence, thumbing through the race program. He says, “Thank God, they’re gone. I need a hot dog.”

Jack whispers to me, “Mom won’t let him eat hot dogs, so he has to sneak them.”

“Do you want one?” Mr. Goodwin asks Jack.

“That’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard.” Jack adjusts his suit jacket. “Of course I want a hot dog.”

Mr. Goodwin gently taps Jack’s cheek. “How about you, Savannah?”

“Yes, sir.” I reach into my back pocket to give him cash, but Mr. Goodwin waves me off. “Wait here so I can find you,” Mr. Goodwin says, then goes over to the concession stand.

“Dad refuses to get a cell phone,” Jack says. “That’s why we have to stand here so he can find us.”

“Why doesn’t he have a cell phone?”

“Because he insists on living in the prehistoric era. I read this story about how apes in zoos use iPads and I showed the article to Dad, hoping it would make him want to start using a computer or a cell, but you know what he said?”

I shake my head.

“He said, ‘I’m not an ape.’” We laugh together as Jack folds his arms on top of the white fence. “I don’t see how he lives without a cell.”

“I don’t have one,” I mumble. “And I get along okay.”

“Considering how often mine beeps, I’m tempted to get rid of it myself.”

I don’t buy that for one second.

“If Star wins,” Jack says, “I want you in the winner’s picture, okay?”

I duck my head, grinning. “Okay,” I reply. “So where’s your girlfriend?”

Jack’s face goes hard. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Whatever you say,” I tease.

“You know, normally I hate giant hats on girls—I think whoever invented them should be rounded up and quartered—but today I love them.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, because every time I see Abby’s hat bobbing through the crowd, I can just turn and run off in the other direction.”

I laugh quietly, wishing he’d elaborate on this whole Abby Winchester situation. Clearly something is going on between them, and whatever it is, it pisses me off because I like him—

I pinch my arm. Why can’t I stop thinking about him?

Mr. Goodwin comes back balancing three hot dogs and his notebook in his hands.

“Don’t tell my wife,” he tells me, as if I would ever impose upon Mrs. Goodwin’s privacy. We yank the aluminum foil back and chow down. I tap my boot nonstop, hardly believing I’m standing with Jack Goodwin at a race.

We finish, wad up our aluminum foil, and Jack checks his watch. “Whitfield should have Star in the paddock by now. Let’s go check on him.”

Dad is helping Rory to put Star’s saddle on when we enter the paddock. Star prances and tries to rip away from Rory, and he attempts to bite Dad’s arm. Dad raises an eyebrow when he sees me with Jack. I quickly shake my head, trying to show Dad that hanging out with Jack wasn’t my idea. He asked me to stand with him during the race.

“Danny,” Jack says, tipping his hat at him. “How’s Star doing?”

“Fed and somewhat more relaxed than usual,” Dad replies. “I think his workout this morning really helped him.”

“Good.” Jack steps up to Star’s nose and whispers to him. It’s really cute.

After Bryant mounts, I pat Star’s neck. “You can do this, understand?” I tell the horse. Star lets out a snort and his tail flips in circles as he looks every which way, and I pat him again to try to soothe him. His breathing steadies as he looks me in the eye.

But the second Bryant steers Star toward the starting gate, the horse whips his head around again. What’s it gonna take to keep him calm?

I move to walk with Jack.

“Shortcake, where are you going?” Dad asks.

“Jack wants me to stand with him during the race. For luck.”

A grin slides across Jack’s face and he mouths, “Shortcake?”

I’m tempted to flip him off, but one doesn’t generally flip off the boss.

Dad does not look pleased. “I need you back in the barn right after, understand?”

I nod quickly and join Jack at the finish line. The scoreboard shows 9–2 odds for Star to win. Not bad. That means people are betting on him to win based on his pedigree and how he looked in warm-ups this morning and the paddock just now.

It makes me proud I played a role in those odds.

I’m leaning against the fence watching the horses and lead ponies trot around the track, doing a final warm-up before post time, when Jack starts tapping his hands on the fence like he’s pounding a bongo drum.

“Calm down,” Mr. Goodwin says to Jack.

“Can’t,” Jack says.

My palms go sweaty and I cross my fingers and my toes as the horses enter the starting gate. Star is in the seventh position. I glue my eyes to the green-and-black Goodwin family silks worn by Bryant and the horse.

The gates fly open.

“And they’re off!” the announcer says, as the crowd goes silent. Hooves thunder across the dirt. It’s a sight that’s mesmerized me since I was a little girl, almost like seeing floats in a parade. The excitement of seeing horses fly out of the gate leaving a wake of dust is electric.

But Star broke late and now he’s trailing the pack. Ten other horses are leaving him in the dust. A colt named Hard Money has the lead, followed by Desert Waves. The Name’s Timmy is in third. “Go, Star,” I say, not tearing my eyes off the green and black silks.

He starts to pick up speed at the 5/8 pole, and I jump up and down. This is Star’s seventh race. Seventh time’s a charm.

The pack reaches the straightaway and hurtles toward the finish line. Star is still in last place but he’s making ground—he passes four horses in a late break, but it’s not enough.

Jack slams his hand against the fence when Desert Waves crosses the line first.

“Maybe next time,” Mr. Goodwin says, looking equal parts pissed and pitying.

“Damn,” I whisper, not wanting to meet Jack’s face. He brought me along today to keep his horse calm! To help him win the race! How will I get the job now?

“He should’ve won,” Jack says, rubbing his eyes. “Shit.”

Mr. Goodwin lays a hand on his shoulder. “Son, lower your voice, please.”

“He shouldn’t be losing. Not with his breeding! That’s all horse racing is. Breeding!” Under his breath, I hear Jack mutter, “And I can’t even fucking do that right.”

I look at the crowd around us. People are staring at Jack. Here’s the thing: regular horse races aren’t like the Derby. They aren’t like an NFL game. It’s about gambling. People watch the races then they go inside and cash in their winning tickets, and then they bet again. They usually don’t make a big scene.

“I can’t believe it,” Jack says, turning to face his father, letting out a string of curses. “Five lengths! He might as well have not run,” Jack hisses.

“Shh,” says Mr. Goodwin.

I feel bad for Jack, but I’m also scared I won’t get the job now. I’ll have to try out for another owner, maybe even work at another farm away from my dad. I need an opportunity to do something big with my life—I won’t get stuck making minimum wage.

I turn to watch Bryant handing Star off to Rory to cool the horse down. Dad pats the horse’s neck then walks over to us. “Savannah, I need you back in the barn now.”

That’s when Jack looks at me as if he just remembered I’m here. Blood races to my head. I really thought I could help with Jack’s horse. Bile works its way from my stomach to my throat.

“Excuse me,” I say to Jack and Mr. Goodwin, then follow Dad back to the barn. I yank a sucker out of my pocket. Now’s not a good time to ask if I got the job.

Star did great in his warm-ups. So what went wrong? What’s he so scared of?

I glance back just in time to see Abby Winchester hurling herself into Jack’s arms. He looks over her shoulder, staring at me. Why in the world is he hugging her?

I pop the sucker in my mouth, shove the wrapper in my pocket, and get ready for the long drive home.