The field had separated into two packs. The back of the pack, populated by horses and jockeys who would be happy simply to complete the race, did not concern her. The front held six horses. Freddy was closest to her. Jessica positioned Bealltainn along the rail as they approached Becher’s Brook for the second time. She quickly reviewed the others and noted which horses were within strides of collapsing with exhaustion and navigated away from them. Bealltainn refused to be checked and fought to go faster. Flecks of foam streamed from his mouth.
She cued an early jump. The milliseconds felt like hours in that slow motion trick the mind plays when things are going catastrophically wrong. Bealltainn’s muscles gathered then exploded, launching them into flight. The earth fell away. At the top of the jump, she leaned back. Feet jammed home. Arms stretched in front. Then chest-crushing pain. A baseball bat or something like it slammed against her chest. She looked for the flailing hoof of a fallen horse, but saw nothing. The pain took her breath away. She sensed, more than saw, the edges of her vision curl in.
Bealltainn descended. The earth rushed to them but teased at being further away. She couldn’t rely on instinct. Everything was too new. Too foreign. Her body hadn’t had enough time to memorize mechanics into reflex. The world lost its color and faded to shades of gray flecked with meteorites of white. She had to correct her position for their landing, but her muscles would not respond. Bealltainn landed hard, slipped, and veered toward the rail. Reins slipped out of Jessica’s hands leaving Bealltainn without a pilot. His front legs shook from the effort of keeping them both upright, hitting the rail on his left side and careening back toward the right—directly in the path of an oncoming horse.
Jessica heard the scream of the horse and the curse of the jockey. A blur of red and brown and flying chunks of turf closed in on her. She was aware of her tingling hands fumbling for the reins. Her heart seemed to have been placed in a vise, stopping it from beating. Bealltainn stumbled and sunk to his knees. A flash of hooves whizzed past her cheek, nicking her helmet, and surged ahead. With one final scramble, Bealltainn found his legs again and pushed himself forward. Survival instinct, not skill, kept Jessica gripped on his back.
The pain in her chest grew. They continued racing on an unstable combination of reflex and luck. Bealltainn was no fool. He took the opportunity of a distracted rider to grip the bit in his teeth, diminishing Jessica’s ability to control him. He jumped huge and at a barely perceptible angle, cutting one horse off midair and causing it to slip badly on its landing. Bealltainn surged ahead, and it was too late to stop him from closing the gap between him and the remaining horses, the bronze panels of their riders’ jerseys distinct.
She looked ahead and saw Freddy looking over his shoulder to see who was challenging him. Goggles and layers of mud hid any surprise that registered on his face. Fumbling with the reins, Jessica tried to saw the bit back and forth in Bealltainn’s mouth, struggling to regain control and desperate to take a line away from the Devon-on-Thames team. It was useless. She couldn’t move her arm. Bealltainn moved right, they moved right. Then they blocked left. Bealltainn decided to go between them.
Each jockey switched their crops into the hand closest to Bealltainn and began flailing wildly. Jessica tried to stay away from their full reach, watching them waste precious energy and time trying to crease her or her horse. She could feel Bealltainn panic to move away from the thrashing crops, ears flattened against his head. A whip crashed down on his shoulder, rose up, and crashed down again. Blows landed on his neck and her leg. A white-hot welt rose up her thigh. She lost the rhythm of his stride, and Bealltainn faltered. His momentary hesitation broke up his speed enough to create a gap between the two lead horses. She was no longer the pilot, but that did not stop her from encouraging him on. Her whole demeanor said, “Go!” He snaked his neck forward. One horse could not withstand the pace. Its legs buckled as they pulled to the outside of the track. Only two horses remained between her and the finish line.
Freddy checked his horse, blocking Jessica’s attempt to pass on the inside. Bealltainn barreled ahead, wedging himself between them and the rail. Freddy’s horse was faltering badly, moving its legs as if they were bags of sand. They approached the hurdle side by side, but Freddy greedily pushed his horse to do more than it was able. He beat the exhausted animal again and again with his crop, alternately trying to catch Bealltainn and Jessica with his swings. Bealltainn stiffened in panic.
“C’mon guy. We can do this.” The voice she hoped to soothe and steady him was nothing more than a coarse whisper. Her ability to control Bealltainn decreased with each stride.
Bealltainn surged forward in a blind need to end the race. Celebrating freedom from commands, the horse flattened his body out and covered huge distances with each stride. It was the fastest Jessica had ever ridden—beyond reason, beyond safety—and she didn’t care. When the final jump appeared, she couldn’t cue Bealltainn to jump big. It didn’t matter. The huge horse gathered himself and launched skyward. Freddy’s horse faltered under the withering pace and threatened to refuse the jump, sliding on stiffened legs as it approached the hedge. She was too focused on staying on to see if they made it over.
She could feel Bealltainn getting sloppy and loose in his gallop, but the end was in sight. She began to rasp a soft singsong of encouragement—more for her benefit than for Bealltainn’s.
Bealltainn had nothing more to give. Jessica’s vision cleared enough to see the closest horse was barely a length away. She wrapped her fingers in his mane.
“C’mon guy. Stretch it out. C’mon. Just a little more.”
With all of the hurdles behind them, the final sprint put Jessica shoulder to shoulder with one last jockey, his silks flecked with mud and soaked with sweat. The jockey swerved into her path and slowed the pace down. Jessica was too new to the harsh strategies of team racing to recognize a setup. The lead jockey slowed their pace to allow his teammate to catch up.
In seconds, Freddy was beside her again, using his horse to press them into the rail. He thrashed his crop, hitting her in the arms and legs. She ducked her head behind her upper arm to protect her face as much as possible. Freddy and the other jockey tried to box her in, trying to her crash into the rail.
With a few more strides they would have succeeded, but Bealltainn panicked. His only instinct was to get away, and the only tool he had to do so was his massive body. He propelled himself forward and to the right, closer to Freddy’s horse. Exhaustion and primal fear worked to make Bealltainn’s gait a drunken swagger at breakneck speed. If it were not for his forward momentum, he would have fallen over. He swayed into Freddy and his horse, causing them to crash to the turf.
Freddy’s teammate used the distraction to take the lead.
Bealltainn fought on. When they passed the finish line, all Jessica was aware of was that they were shoulder to shoulder. She had no idea who finished first. She willed her fingers to unclench his mane, but her movements were sluggish. Her heart and shoulder were on fire. She stood up in the stirrups, wrapped the reins twice around her hands, and sawed the bit as hard as she could. Finally, she was able to bring Bealltainn to a reluctant canter, then trot. The world swirled. She wanted to praise Bealltainn but was afraid leaning over to rub his neck would send her toppling to the ground. Flecks of light played at the edges of her vision.
The track immediately filled with people and eventually a groom came up, clipping a lead onto Bealltainn’s bridle. Voices swirled around her.
“Jaysus! A photo finish! Bloody good race, that one!” a thick-necked groom said as he patted Bealltainn’s side. “The horses that stayed standing were running in the spot, but at least they finished.”
Jessica couldn’t find her voice.
“They’re still lookin’ at the monitors to see who won! I hain’t seen anything like it.”
Only after she knew the groom was in control of Bealltainn did she uncurl her fingers from the reins to take off her gloves. Her hands were shaking and cold, her finger
s white with deep red gullies imprinted from the reins tingled as blood returned. Her breath came in short, panting intervals as she recovered from the pummeling. Her chest and shoulder hurt. Her skin, abraded by the vest, was sticky and sore.
She and Bealltainn were escorted into the winner’s paddock. Doherty was there, but she only cared that Michael was. Doherty was the first to congratulate her.
“Well done! By God, you gave that a cracking ride! Hardly touched a twig.” His eyes scanned Bealltainn as he ran his hand down the horse’s legs, barely giving Jessica a glance.
Bealltainn’s sides heaved and strings of sweat and foam dripped off him. Other horses hung their heads in exhaustion, but he skittered aside while the track officials gathered around him. A cup, referred to as a spit bucket, was used to gather up some of his slobber, and one official walked off toward the compact building that housed the track’s offices—standard procedure for drug screening. The remaining officials shared looks a mixture of surprise and disgust. They motioned to Doherty and huddled in conversation.
A roar rippled through the crowd as the results were posted. Bealltainn had lost. Members of the Devon-on-Thames team received slapped backs and high fives. Jessica dropped her head to her chest, too exhausted to be angered by the results.
Doherty looked up at her. “Never mind those cretins. Your horse stayed up, and you stayed on. It’s more than most of them can say.”
“You rode a spectacular race,” Michael said as he reached to help her dismount. “You did a great job. Thank you.”
Jessica put her hands on his shoulders and jumped down, legs wobbly and hot from exertion. Her arms and legs stung from repeated blows. No doubt her right thigh would have a winner of a welt tomorrow. She moved to unclip her helmet and remove her goggles, but her left arm felt heavy and sodden. Without fuss, she used her right arm to gently bring her left across her body to rest at her waist. Exhausted and aching, she accepted Michael’s embrace and kiss. She let her weight fall against him.
Jax extended his hand. “That was a bloody good ride! One of the best I’ve ever seen. You’ve got a future on this track if you have a mind for it.”
Jessica smiled weakly. “Thank you, but no. That was truly insane.”
“Insane? Hardly. That was barely a quarter hour’s worth of work, and you’ve nothin’ to do for the rest of the day but be wined and dined. Enjoy yourself for a change.” Jax clipped a lead onto Bealltainn’s bridle and walked to the barns.
Doherty looked up at the clock. “You’ve time enough to change before the luncheon. Then there’s the dinner tonight. I’m sure many people will want to make your acquaintance.”
She barely acknowledged him. “I guess no one will have to worry about a woman in the winner’s circle,” she said as she scanned at the sea of faces. She couldn’t pick out a friendly expression on any of them. “I’m sorry I lost your horse for you. Bealltainn is a rarity. He’s going to be a phenomenal champion.”
Doherty’s mouth firmed. “Betting and losing is all a part of the sport.”
The owner of Devon-on-Thames cut into the conversation. His face reddened with ale that had already begun to flow. Betting slips and tout sheets from the day’s race stuffed the pockets of his brown plaid jacket. “Bloody brilliant race! Any horse I own just increased in value because of today. Win or lose, today’s race put your farm and our syndicate on everyone’s lips.”
“My farm was already on everyone’s lips,” quipped Doherty. “I hardly needed your help with that.”
Jessica continued to lean against Michael, enduring the formalities and wishing this whole day were over. Not having the adrenalin rush of a win to prop her up and carry her through made the beatings she endured much harder. The thought of sitting through celebratory luncheons and receptions made her wilt, so she didn’t resist when Michael ignored the final formalities of the day and declined requests for introductions and interviews. The physical and emotional demands set by the frenetic pace of the last two weeks caught up with her and was grateful for Michael’s intervention. She felt increasingly defeated when she realized it was not even eleven thirty in the morning.
One of Michael’s men approached. She was vaguely aware of how urgently and quietly he spoke into Michael’s ear. Michael replied with a few commands and pulled her closer. She flinched with pain. He looked over her head at the crowd and guided her to the exit.
She felt the tension in his body. “What’s going on?” she asked, alert to the sudden change.
“We need to get out of here.”
With orchestrated efficiency, his security detail surrounded them. No one looked at one another. As a group, they acted as strangers merely moving in the same direction. Casual. Relaxed. Concealing the fact that they were coiled. Ready. They were almost to the doors when the crowd hushed and cell phones chimed and vibrated in unison. Attention shifted away from horses and owners to anyone with a cell phone. After the hush came a flurry of action.
If lavishing money on their horses wasn’t enough to prove the wealth of those in attendance, then hiring the best in personal security was. Private security patrols materialized from the shadows of the empty pavilions and rolled up in front of the Queen Mother’s Stand. Some wore crisp uniforms, echoing the countries from which they hailed. Others looked woefully underprepared with sagging trousers and blue blazers, but each spoke with hushed commands and hurried to the sides of their employers. Teams fanned out around the building, eyes straining to see anything remotely threatening. Dogs sniffed. People rushed. No one panicked, but all knew the cease-fire was over. Jessica heard them say “explosion” and “crowded mall.” She looked at Michael with widened eyes and a silent question.
“I’ll learn more soon,” was all he said, placing a protective kiss on her forehead.
Thirty minutes later, she was back in her suite drawing a steaming bath. Michael settled her in, making sure she had everything she needed for a few hours. Then, he had made a quick apology and posted two men at her door before he left, cell phone pressed to his ear. Jessica focused more on slipping into a bath than wondering when he would be back. When she finally looked at her reflection, she almost wanted to laugh. A thick film of ash-gray mud covered her from head to toe. Where her goggles were, her eyes stood out as two white patches.
Streaks of mud continued down her neck and her hair held thick clots of gunk. She unbuttoned her jersey and slipped her arms out, noting how terribly compressed her chest felt. The heavy vest felt even heavier and her left shoulder and arm sluggish and sore. She dropped her silks and began to rip off the vest. What she saw did not make sense.
She laid the vest on the vanity and carefully inspected. It didn’t look like the other vest used in her fall off Kilkea. This one was made of thick layers of a semi-flexible material covered with a sturdy brushed canvas fabric in a dark gray color. But, instead of it being a patchwork of ingenious airbags, this one was made out of Kevlar—not to protect equestrians but to protect police officers and soldiers.
That was a revelation in itself. Then a flash caught her attention. In the upper left corner, over her heart, where an emblem could have been, she found something quite different.
The bullet had hit the vest with such a velocity that it had smashed and flattened into a size not much larger than a quarter. The Kevlar bulged out in back, making a dent in Jessica’s chest centered below her collarbone and above her heart. The protruding knob compressed the nerves that traveled to her left hand and caused painful pressure and tingling.
Using a nail file, Jessica pried the bullet out of its hollow, not believing what she was seeing. Where the bullet would have entered her, the skin above her left breast was darkening into a deep purple color, showing substantial bruising underneath her skin. Whoever aimed at her didn’t want to fail.
It took effort to sit calmly in the bath. The hot water stung her raw and abraded skin. She soaked until the water-cooled and the ibuprofen kicked in. Michael sent a masseuse, who worked on the remaining
kinks while she mulled the day’s events. Slowly the pain subsided, and she curled up on the couch, hugging her terry robe around her as if it could offer her protection. An hour later, a loud knock on the door startled her and she rose slowly to answer it. Michael’s face peered back at her through the peephole.
A uniformed waiter rolled a room service cart into the suite and raised his head in question of where to set up the food. The suite was comprised of a bedroom, bath, and large living room that doubled as a conference room. A dining table able to sit four was in front of large French doors that opened to a small balcony. Michael motioned toward the coffee table in the middle of another seating area that held a couch and two large armchairs.
He waited patiently for the table to be set before he ushered the waiter and empty cart out the door, past his two men stationed in the hallway. He closed the door and secured the chain before he enveloped Jessica in his arms. He held her face and kissed her with urgency. Fingers tangled in her hair as he kissed her lips, her cheeks, and down her neck.
“I was worried about you. It looked like you were about to collapse today.”
“That was hell,” she said, only half joking. She looked at his casual chinos and a light sweater. “No tux? I thought we were committed to that fancy dinner tonight?”
In just a few hours he had aged twenty years. Lines on his ashen face joined crescents of dark blue under his eyes. He motioned to the table, spread with multiple dishes with metal covers, fresh flowers, and champagne. “I thought I’d keep you to myself tonight. I figured I owed you one after that race today.”
“This doesn’t even come close to making up for what I’ve been through.” She lifted the stainless steel covers from the variety of plates and platters, reviewing the night’s offerings. “Hmm. Looks delicious. But why the change in plans?”
“I know you’re not disappointed at staying in,” he teased, trying to keep his manner light. “Think of it. You don’t have to be ogled at by some Saudi prince.”
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 21