by Nora Roberts
chance. Horses were discussed, strategies outlined. A groom in a tweed hat gently walked a crippled horse, singing to it in a soothing monotone.
There was no particular excitement, or anticipation. Just routine, one she realized went on day after day while most people slept or nodded over their first cup of coffee.
She spotted a man in a pale blue suit and shiny boots in earnest conversation with a placid-eyed man in a tattered cardigan. Now and again the man in the suit would punctuate his words with a jab of a pudgy finger. A flashy diamond ring in the shape of a horseshoe winked with every move.
“Bill Cunningham,” Naomi said, noting who had captured Kelsey’s attention.
“Cunningham?” Kelsey frowned, and flipped through her memory. “Isn’t that the name I heard that groom Gabe fired yesterday mention?”
“Longshot used to be Cunningham Farm. Bill inherited it, oh, about twenty-five years ago, I guess.” The disdain in her voice leaked through. “He was doing a first-class job of running it into the ground when he lost it to Gabe. Now he has an interest in several horses, owns one or two mediocre ones outright. He lives in Maryland. The trainer’s Carmine, works for Bill and several other owners. Right now Carmine’s listening to Bill’s instructions, his pontificating, and he’s agreeing with everything. Then Carmine will do as he pleases because he knows Bill’s an ass. Oops.” She let out a sigh. “He spotted us. I’ll apologize ahead of time.”
“Naomi.” In a strutting stride that showed off his boots, Cunningham closed in on them. His eyes glittered like polished marbles as he took Naomi’s hands. “A beautiful sight on a gloomy morning.”
“Bill.” The years had given Naomi a high tolerance for fools, and she offered her cheek. “We don’t often see you at workouts.”
“Got me a new horse. Claiming race at Hialeah. She took the win as the rider pleased. I was just telling Carmine how she should be worked today. Don’t want her rated.”
“Of course not,” Naomi said sweetly. “Bill, this is my daughter, Kelsey.”
“Daughter?” He puffed out his cheeks in feigned surprise. Like everyone else in the area, he already knew about Kelsey. “You must mean sister. Glad to meet you, dearie.” He slapped a hand to Kelsey’s and pumped vigorously. “Going to follow in your ma’s bootsteps, are you?”
“I’m just here to watch.”
“Well, there’s plenty to see. We’ll have her hooked by dusk,” he added with a wink to Naomi. “You check with me before you make any bets this afternoon, honey. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“Thank you.”
“Nothing’s too good for Naomi’s little girl. You know, if I hadn’t shied at the gate, I might be your papa. You take care now.”
“In a pig’s eye,” Naomi muttered under her breath as Bill strutted away to harass his trainer. “He likes to think we were an item when the closest we came was me not quite avoiding one sloppy kiss.”
“I appreciate your taste. What the hell was he saying about his horse?”
“Oh.” Naomi set her hands on her hips and enjoyed a good laugh. “Bill likes to toss the lingo around, thinks it fools people into believing he knows something. Let’s see . . . in plain English. He picked up the filly in a claiming race, meaning the owners had put it up for sale. The horse won easily, and Bill met the asking price. He feels the horse shouldn’t be rated, or slowed, during the workout.” She frowned at his back. “He’s the type who pays a jockey extra for every hit of the stick. If a horse isn’t whipped over the finish line, Bill feels cheated.”
“I’m surprised you were so polite.”
“It doesn’t cost me anything.” She shrugged. “And I know what it is to be an outcast. Come on, Moses should have a rider up by now.”
They moved through the paddock area where exercise boys were being given a leg up onto their mounts. With little between them, Kelsey noted. The saddle was so tiny, hardly more than a slip of leather. The boys, as they were called regardless of sex, stood in the high stirrups while mounted trainers walked beside or behind them toward the track.
“That’s one of ours.” Naomi pointed to a trotting bay. “Virginia’s Pride. If you can’t resist betting today, you might want to put a couple of dollars on him. He’s an amazing athlete, and he likes this particular track.”
“Do you bet?”
“Mmmm.” Naomi’s eyes were on Moses, who rode a half-length behind the bay. “I’ve always hated to refuse a gamble. Let’s watch him run.”
There were other horses on the track. The mist was lifting now, and they cut through it like bullets through mesh, exploding through it, shredding it. Kelsey’s breath caught at the sight of it, the sounds of it. Huge bodies on thin legs, spewing up dirt, necks straining forward with their tiny riders bent low. Her heartbeat picked up the pulse of the muffled thunder of hooves.
“There.” Excitement lifted her voice as she pointed. “That’s your horse.”
“Yes, that’s ours. The track’s fast today, but I imagine Moses told the boy to keep him just under two minutes.”
“How would the rider know?”
“He has a clock in his head.” Gabe’s voice came from behind her. Though Kelsey started, she didn’t take her eyes off the horse rocketing around the track. “He looks good, Naomi.”
“He’ll look even better by Derby time.” Her eyes narrowed. “That one’s yours, isn’t he?”
“Double or Nothing.” Gabe leaned on the rail as his horse sped past. “He’ll look better by May, too.”
Kelsey didn’t see how. Both horses looked magnificent now, eating up the track, tossing pieces of it toward the sky. They were airborne, those terrifyingly delicate legs lifting off the earth like wings.
She could have stayed there for hours, watching horse after horse, lap after lap. True, it took only a minute or two, and the clockers stood with their stopwatches, the trainers with theirs, but it was timeless to her. Like a lovely animated painting in a worn frame.
“Picked your favorite yet?” Gabe asked her.
“No.” She didn’t look at him, didn’t want him or the memory of what she’d heard in the night to spoil the mood. “I’m not much of a gambler.”
“Then I don’t suppose you’d like to bet that you’ll hit the windows before the afternoon’s over.”
She shrugged, then found she couldn’t resist. “Bill Cunningham offered to give me some tips.”
“Cunningham?” Gabe let out a roar of laughter. “Then I hope you’ve got deep pockets, darling.” He leaned against the fence. He considered taking out a cigar, but decided it would spoil his enjoyment of Kelsey’s scent. Soft and subtle it was, the kind that crept into a man’s senses and lingered long after the woman had slipped away.
“Morning’s the best time,” Naomi murmured, shading her eyes as the sun broke through the thinning mist and dazzled. “Clean slate.”
“Possibilities.” Gabe looked down at Kelsey. “It’s all about possibilities.”
Later, they walked back to the shedrow. Horses steamed in the cool air as they were unsaddled and walked. Legs were checked for strains, sprains, and bruises. A roan’s hooves were oiled. A groom posed another, crouching down, searching for injury. A farrier with leather apron and battered toolbox hammered a shoe.
“Like a painting, isn’t it?” Gabe asked, as if he’d plucked the image from Kelsey’s brain.
“Yes, it is.”
“Everything you see here would have been true a hundred years ago, five hundred. Thoroughbreds’ legs can go anytime, so we obsess about them. Look there. Where’s the trainer looking?”
She turned to watch a horse being led in, the trainer behind. “At the horse’s feet.”
“And he’ll keep his eyes there.” He nodded in another direction. “They were probably around a thousand years ago.”
A man in a racing cap dogged Moses at the heels. He was talking fast, puffing to keep up. “Who is he?”
“Jockey agent. They hustle from barn to barn trying to co
nvince everyone they represent the next Willie Shoemaker.” Casually, he tucked Naomi’s hair behind her ear. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“I’d love some. Kelsey?”
“Sure. Thanks. Is it all right if I get a closer look at your horse while he’s being walked?”
“Go ahead.”
Naomi settled down on an upturned bucket. The morning’s work was nearly done. And the waiting would start. She’d gotten very good at waiting. There was a pleasure in it now, watching her daughter circle with the hot walker. Asking questions, Naomi imagined. The child had always been full of questions. But never aloof, as she was now.
For a moment that morning, as they stood in the mist watching the first horses round the practice track, she’d felt something relax between them. Then the stiffness had come back. Subtle, but then there were so many subtleties to her daughter. So many contrasts.
Kelsey laughed. It was the first time Naomi had heard the sound, easy, without reservations.
“She’s enjoying herself,” Gabe commented as he passed Naomi a cup of coffee.
“I know. It’s good to see it. I’m sitting here telling myself that it won’t always be so awkward between us.” She eased her dry throat with the hot, sweetened coffee. “I just want to touch her. To hold her, just once. And I can’t. She might let me, out of pity. That would be worse than rejection.”
“She’s here.” Gently he ran a hand down her hair, over her shoulder. “She doesn’t strike me as the type to be here if she didn’t want to be.”
“I don’t expect her to love me again. But I do want her to let me love her.” She reached for the hand on her shoulder, covered it with her own.
Kelsey tried to ignore the intimacy of the pose when she walked back to them. It was their business, she reminded herself. She kept a smile on her face and reached out for the coffee Gabe offered. “Thanks. I’ve just been given the winner in every race today. I should leave here, I’m told, flush.”
“Jimmy’s always got a tip,” Naomi said. “And they’re right as often as they’re wrong.”
“Oh, but these are sure things.” Kelsey grinned as she lifted her cup. “He swore he’d never give Miss Naomi’s daughter anything but a cinch tip. I’m supposed to bet on Necromancer in the first because the field’s slow and he’s generous and should win laughing.” She arched a brow. “Did I get that right?”
“No one would guess it’s your first day,” Gabe said soberly.
“Oh, I’m a quick study.” She glanced around. The pace was definitely slowing down, she noted. “What happens now?”
“We wait.” Naomi rose, stretched. “Come on. I’ll buy us some doughnuts to go with this coffee.”
Waiting, it seemed, was a way of life around the track. By ten the workday was over for the horses not scheduled to race. Trailers pulled in and pulled out. The track was groomed.
By noon, the grandstands began to fill. The glassed-in restaurant behind them served lunch, catering to those who preferred their racing experience away from the noise and smells of the masses.
In the shedrow, horses were prepped once again. Swollen legs were iced down in buckets. According to personal strategy, some were kept on edge, others soothed like babies. Jockeys donned their silks.
Now the anticipation was there. The excitement that had been missing from the mist-coated morning. Horses pranced, fidgeted, athletes eager to run. Some calmed when their jockeys were tossed onto their backs; others pawed and quivered.
From the paddock area they walked toward the track, single file, some led by grooms, some unaccompanied.
Now the grandstands buzzed, newcomers sprinkled among regulars. All of them hoping today would be their day. The post parade, the foundation of the dozens of racing rituals, began with the horses stepping onto the track. At the bugler’s call they circled it, in order of post position. Those eager to bet studied racing forms, horses, jockeys, hoping to pick a winner.
If a horse was sweating, he might be nervous. Advantage or disadvantage? Each player had his own opinion. Bandaged forelegs. Could be trouble. Ah, that one hauling at his bit. Might be bad-tempered today. Or he might be fast.
That one looks like a winner.
At the finish line, barely five minutes after it had begun, the parade dissolved like colorful confetti tossed in the air.
It didn’t matter to Kelsey. There was too much to see. Odd, the track wasn’t really flat at all. It was wide, textured with furrows and air pockets, a circular mile of speed and dreams.
She could all but smell the dreams as she stood at the rail. From the jockeys, from the grandstands. Some were fresh and floral, others stale, powdered dry with dust. And she understood, standing there, what a powerful drug it was to want to win.
“I think I’ll take that first tip.”
Naomi laughed. She had been expecting it. “Take her up, will you, Gabe? Nobody should face their first window alone.”
“I’m sure I can handle it,” Kelsey said when Gabe took her hand.
“Everybody thinks that.” He wound his way up, inside, where lines were already forming at the windows. “Let me give you a quick lesson on playing the horses. Have you figured out how much cash you’d play?”
She frowned, annoyed. “About a hundred.”
“Double it. Whatever you figure you’ll play, double it. Then consider it gone. Now, you’ve got your racing form.”
“Yeah, I got it.” She didn’t understand it, but she had it.
“Normally, you’d need about four hours in a quiet place to study it, reviewing the races in order, eliminating horses, ranking others. Best to whittle it down to two or three. No binoculars, huh?”
“No, I didn’t think—”
“Never mind, you can borrow mine.” He eased her into a line, draped an arm companionably over her shoulder. He didn’t smile. He wanted to, but he didn’t. She was listening to him as a prized student would to a veteran teacher. “Now you want to forget betting the doubles or the exactas, any of the combinations. And you want to bet to win.”
“Of course I do.”
“That’s right, aggressive betting—it’s its own reward. Betting to show is for wimps.” He had the satisfaction of seeing the man in the line beside him wince and curl his shoulders. “Did you check the odds board?”
“No,” she said, feeling like a fool.
“Your horse is at four to one. That’s fine. Betting favorites is for cowards. Too bad you told me you weren’t much of a gambler or I wouldn’t have let you eat or drink before betting.”
“What?”
“Never eat or drink before you pick a winner, Kelsey.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re making this up.”
“Nope. It’s all gospel.” Now he grinned. “And it’s all bullshit. Bet to play because it’s fun. Close your eyes and pick a number. Horses are athletes, not machines. You can’t figure them.”
“Thanks a lot.” Amused now, she stepped up to the window. “Ten dollars on Necromancer.” She shot a look at Gabe. “To win.”
With his arm still around her shoulder, Gabe reached for his wallet. “Fifty on number three. To win.”
Clutching her own ticket, she frowned. “Who’s number three?”
“Couldn’t say.” He slipped the ticket into his pocket.
“You just bet a number, just a number?”
“A hunch. Want to make a side bet on who comes in first? Your tip or my hunch?”
“Another ten,” she shot back.
“And you said you weren’t much of a gambler.”
He got her back to the rail just as the horses entered the starting gate. Foolish it might have been, but her heart was thudding, her palms damp. At the clang of the bell she strained forward, dazzled by the blur of color.
No misty workout now, but a crowd of muscled bodies fighting for position, their riders a burr on their backs. In seconds they reached full stride, with front-runners hugging the rail. The sound was overwhelming, thunder in front, roaring in
back. Then they were at the turn.
“Number three’s got it,” Gabe said in her ear.
Kelsey shook him off. “They’ve barely started.”
She could hear jockeys screaming, threats or encouragement, while their whips flashed. Down the stretch, the wire in sight, and Kelsey had forgotten the bet entirely. Every emotion was caught up in the race itself, the showmanship of it, the drama of speed. She saw a horse coming from behind, straining, digging in. Hardly aware of the decision, she began to root for him, thrilled by that flash of courage and heart.
He nipped the leader on the outside and took the wire by half a length.