The Scorpio Races

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

That evening, I saddle up a filly named Malvern Small Miracle, so called because she was so motionless and quiet when she was born that everyone thought she was stillborn.

I’m worn and tired. Something’s wrong with my right arm where one of the horses jammed it earlier today, and I want nothing more than to crawl into my bed to consider whether or not my meeting tomorrow with Kate Connolly is a poor idea. But there are two buyers here, just off the boat, and word’s come that I need to show two of the three-year-olds to them while there’s still light. Why it won’t hold until tomorrow, I don’t know.

When I walk out into the golden evening yard to meet the buyers, I’m surprised to find that the other filly, a gray named Sweeter, is already out there, someone on her back. It only takes me half a moment to recognize the silhouette as Mutt Malvern’s, and something in my gut snarls and turns. Three men stand at her shoulder, their attention on Mutt. He turns his head toward me, face in shadow, and I know he means for me to see that it’s him. That he thinks that it’s any of his business to be showing Sweeter offends me badly enough, but when I hear him tell one of the buyers how much he loves this filly, all I can think of is him standing at the point of the cove, waiting for Fundamental to be pulled under.

Miracle’s hot. She skitters sideways and then shoots across the yard to where Mutt stands, bold enough that Sweeter moves out of her way. Our blue shadows stand beneath us.

“Sean Kendrick,” says George Holly gladly. At my name, the other two buyers turn to observe me. I don’t recognize either of them. Fresh blood, perhaps.

“Sean will be riding the other filly out,” Mutt tells them, his expression paternal. He smiles. “Since I can’t ride two at the same time.”

I’m not sure he can ride one at the same time. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him at the gallops.

One of the buyers mutters my name to the other and Mutt leans toward them to ask, “What’s that?”

“Kendrick. The name sounds familiar.”

Mutt looks at me.

“I just ride the horses,” I say.

George Holly’s smile is light in the darkness.

“Are you riding in the race, too?” asks a buyer. I nod.

“On the red stallion,” Holly tells him. “The one you saw earlier.”

They mumble their appreciation and ask Mutt who he’s riding in the races.

Mutt sets his jaw. I don’t think he even remembers Edana’s name. He has yet to ride her.

I know this is where I, in the employ of the Malverns, am meant to step in and be helpful and humble, to save Mutt’s face. It’s what I’ve done for most of my life, and I can feel on my lips the words that will make Mutt look good. The words that will remind the clients of my relative hierarchy in the Malvern Yard.

But instead, I say, “I’ve chosen the bay mare with the white blaze, Edana, for him. I think they’ll be a good match.”

The yard is silent. There’s something coiled and repugnant in Mutt’s posture as he fixes his gaze on me. The buyers exchange glances as Holly rocks on his heels.

I can see my words burrow under Mutt’s skin. I feel untethered and dangerous.

Miracle shies at nothing in particular, dancing in place. Her hooves clatter and echo across the stones. I turn to Mutt. I imagine him going beneath the water instead of Fundamental. In Corr’s grasp. Beneath hooves in my father’s place. “Light’s failing. Shall we take your fillies out, then?”

Mutt turns Sweeter without a word.

The gallop is seven furlongs, nearly a mile, and straight as an arrow. The horses are spirited as they step onto it, knowing what is coming next. I feel Mutt’s gaze on me, and when I meet it, his mouth twists. This was not meant to be a race between Miracle and Sweeter, but I see now that there’s no way that it won’t be.

Sweeter leaps out. Miracle is only a moment behind as I give her some rein. We streak along the pale gallop, its surface striped with blue shadows. The air screams by my ears, cold and painful. The shadows are so heavy that both fillies mistake them for real things and lift their knees, jumping invisible hurdles.

Mutt glances over at me to see how far I am, but he needn’t bother. We’re right on him. Shoulder to shoulder, the fillies surge down the track. Speedwise, I know the fillies are evenly matched, but I also know that only half of racing is how fast your horse is. I’ve been on this gallop hundreds of times on hundreds of horses, and I know where the incline starts, I know where the ground is soft by the rail, and I know where the horses slow and stare at the tractor parked near the road. I know everything there is to know about Miracle, too, how she likes to run herself out if you don’t keep her in check, how much I’ll need to push her to keep her strong up the incline, how to wave my crop just a bit to keep her attention on the task at hand and not the tractor.

All Mutt knows is how to beat the hell out of his mount as he’s losing.

I know I should hold Miracle back. I know I should let Mutt and Sweeter finish first.

I feel the buyers’ eyes on me.

I lean forward and whisper to Miracle. Her ear tips back at me, and I release the reins.

It’s not even a contest.

Miracle pulls away from Sweeter by one length, two lengths, three lengths, four, not even breathing that hard. Mutt is bogged down somewhere in the wet ground near the rail, Sweeter slow and inattentive.

I turn around, standing in my stirrups, and salute Mutt Malvern with my crop.

I know it’s a deadly game I’m playing.

“Not a jockey?” Holly says to me as I walk Miracle back into the yard.

“Just a horse lover,” I reply.