Race Girl

by Leigh Hutton

  RACE GIRL

  LEIGH HUTTON

  First published in 2016

  Copyright © Leigh Hutton 2016

  All rights reserved . No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  ISBN 978-0-9924956-7-1 (eBook)

  Leigh Hutton Books

  Brisbane | Calgary

  PO BOX 828

  Samford, QLD 4520

  Australia

  www.leighhuttonbooks.com

  eBook edition distributed by

  Port Campbell Press

  www.portcampbellpress.com.au

  eBook Created by Warren Broom

  RACE GIRL, the story and its characters, are fictional. Although some celebrities’ names and real entities, places, venues and events are mentioned, they are all used fictitiously.

  This book is dedicated to Michelle Payne and any girl or woman who is brave enough to chase their dreams.

  1

  Race the boy

  Tully Athens swung up into the saddle, her fingers clinging to the reins and a clump of mane, her chest constricting with panic. The ex-racehorse danced beneath her, tossing his head with the excitement of being free from his paddock. A hot, humid breeze whipped at her face and the smell of jacarandas – the purple flowers her mother had so loved – sent Tully’s mind reeling. Images of her mum being slammed into the turf struck Tully like a tsunami. She gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes tight, willing the terrifying memories away. But the doubt, the fear, kept washing over her . . . Maybe her father was right; maybe she shouldn’t be riding. Maybe she didn’t even want to.

  Greg leapt forward, catching Tully off-guard. She clamped onto his back like a cat with its claws out, freezing stiff with terror as the lanky bay trotted freely away from the stables, down towards the row of turnout paddocks. The other horses whinnied and jumped about with excitement, some cantering up to greet them. You’re gonna die,Tully—she screamed at herself—if you don’t snap out of it!

  Greg plunged into a canter, eating up the ground with his huge thoroughbred stride. He carted her across the driveway, jumping a crack in the dry, drought-eroded earth. The force of the landing sent Tully dangerously off balance, punching a breath from her rigid body. She closed her eyes for a split second, the world going black as she groaned with the effort of pulling herself back into the tiny saddle and grabbing at the reins. She hovered for a moment, still frozen with fear, her mind whirling.

  Just ride.

  The words materialised in her mind, white as an angel’s wings. She gasped for breath . . .

  It was the horse’s scent that brought Tully back into her body. Sweat had breached his skin, his soft coat radiating that wonderful horsey smell revered by all who love them. She righted herself, gripping on to him, listening to the big horse’s breathing, matching it without thinking – in out, in out. She curled her fingers around the stiff rubber of the reins, pulled for Greg to stop.

  He mouthed the bit, slowing his gait. He’d been her mother’s favourite horse after she had saved him from the doggers and Tully had helped nurse him back to health. No one had ridden him since her mum.

  Tully’s feet found the stirrups of the small racing saddle next, easing her heels down. Shortening the reins, squeezing harder. The powerful horse tossed his head, but obediently came back to a trot.

  Strands of Tully’s long strawberry blonde hair fell free from her helmet, tickling against her freckled cheeks. She managed to grip the horse’s flanks with her calves, relaxing into her seat and bringing him back down to a walk.

  As they clopped along past the last of the turnout paddocks, Tully released a slow, thin breath, her eyes creeping left, then right, her mind catching up with what was happening – I’m riding, she realised. Really riding, in control . . . Greg’s free gait transported her back to the days of riding out with her mum, of kicking hard to keep up aboard little Frangipani, or in the later years, when her mum let Tully ride Greg for morning track work, right alongside the going racehorses. Tully sucked in a deep, ragged breath as the wonderful, happy memories curled within her, and a smile spread across her lips.

  Tully had been building up the courage to get back on Greg since her mother’s accident that winter. She’d tried about a dozen times, but always chickened out after getting him caught and groomed. This morning, however, she’d finally had enough. Her body – her mind, too – were so anxious to get back on a horse that in recent nights she’d been struggling to sleep and could hardly think of anything else. She’d filled all of her notebooks with horsey sketches, was only just scraping by Year 10 and constantly feared she was going to get the sack from work for dropping orders, including three soft serve ice cream cones into a customer’s lap. She had to ride or she was going to explode. It was in her blood.

  So this morning she’d pulled on her lucky pink pony socks and favourite riding jeans, and headed out into the misty dawn to tack up Greg. Her father and their head track work rider had trailered their going racehorses into the track in town for fast gallops, as they did most Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Fortunately, they’d scraped together enough money to put fuel in the rusty old ute and pay the track fee this morning, much to Tully’s relief, as it was her only time alone on the farm.

  Tully grinned as she peered through the tips of Greg’s ears. ‘Easy, mate,’ she said gently, turning him into the entrance of the exercise track, up and over a rise.

  Greg lifted his nose and pricked his ears, his eyes darting across the wide dam – the centerpiece of Avalon Downs – to a chorus of cheeky cockatoos and pink and grey galahs enjoying fallen feed. Tully wiped beads of sweat from her eyes, giggling at the familiar taste of dirt and horsehair. Her stomach lurched when she smelled the jacarandas again, but she steeled herself to keep calm. They were springtime blossoms, but a few flowers had managed to hold onto the branches of the trees that lined the length of the winding driveway to the old homestead of Avalon, crumbling high on the side of the valley and cradled by the green mountain range all around. Her mother’s frangipanis still bloomed on either side of the front verandah too, a mass of white and yellow, lovely despite being hacked at and cursed by her father. Every night when Tully was done at the stables, when she was feeding and watering the dogs and the chooks, she secretly watered them too.

  Tully peeled her eyes from the jacarandas, got a firm grip on the reins, lifted her narrow hips from the saddle and forced herself to click Greg up into a trot.

  Up the rise towards the far paddocks, gaining speed, a cloud of dust billowing out behind them. Past the strappers’ and workers’ quarters – a Queenslander-style cottage in only marginally better shape than the dilapidated main house, with its sagging floor and rusted roof. Along the drooping, once-white rail, the last shards of paint curled and fell to the ground like the bark off the ghost-like gums standing tall down by the dried-up creek bed. A few wallabies started as she went by, bouncing off through the dead grass and wilting weeds, bounding down towards the creek.

  Tully loved the way Greg’s coarse mane tickled at her arms and she felt once more the keen burn up the back of her legs. Her body buzzed with excitement and the thrill of freedom only riding could ever give her. She grinned in her helmet, nodding her appreciation of her eager mount.

  Greg was behaving himself.
She did know how to ride. ‘It’s worth the risk, Tully,’ her mother’s mantra reverberated within her mind and suddenly she understood. It was worth it. Nothing else could compare.

  The sun cut through the early morning haze, spilling hot and yellow down into the valley from the stable across the road. Tully’s favourite time of the day – when the leaves of the gums transformed into glittering golden stars. She glanced across the dam and Avalon’s worn fences, over the bitumen of Beaudesert Lane.

  Greg picked his way over a hard patch of dirt – parts of the track were in serious need of maintenance – and leapt over a newly-formed crack in the ground, jumping it like a steeplechase fence. Tully laughed, clinging on, then righted herself and moved forward, feeling the familiar thrill as Greg took off around the far corner, down towards the road.

  A few easy laps around the track, their dust beginning to hang in the air. She finally felt ready and she clicked her tongue – Greg instantly plunging into a canter. Tully was laughing and grinning like a real jockey as they tore down the strip of land between the road and the dam, nearing the home corner. The front entrance of their property was just ahead, with its faded ‘Avalon Downs’ sign hanging from an archway flanked by palm trees.

  Tully relaxed into Greg’s stride, finding her rhythm. He flicked his head to pick up the pace, ears firmly forward, a smile on his face.

  Tully was considering relaxing her hold when both she and Greg flinched with shock – a boy had somehow appeared beside them, trotting along the road.

  He was tall and muscular and a bit older than Tully, riding a solid, stunning grey. Tully pulled Greg back to a walk, ran her hand down his neck to settle him. Greg’s belly might’ve been round from lack of work, but he was still fresh and excited to be out. He baulked at this new horse and rider trotting so close. Eyes rolling, Greg started to sidle off the rail.

  ‘Whoa, buddy!’ Tully said, doing her best to pull Greg back on line. She glanced across the rails of the drooping faded fence, narrowing her electric blue eyes at the boy.

  The boy smirked at Tully, and she found herself mesmerised by the cocky lightening-bolt grin, the dimples in his cheeks, the challenging gleam in his dark chocolate, nearly ebony eyes. He lounged, utterly confident in the saddle, at home in the bush.

  Heat crept up her cheeks and she blinked a few times to confirm the boy was real. Tully had never imagined guys like this existed in real life, and here she was riding next to one! His hair was super hot, sandy blonde and curling out from under his black Akubra. Dark stylish slim-fitting jeans pulled tight over his thighs, his roper boots were scuffed and dusty, his checked shirt rolled up to the elbows, collar flicked up. Her eyes ran down his strong forearms, where veins stood out beneath tanned skin as he handled the reins.

  He rode in a stock saddle of soft rich brown leather, his grey’s pretty face highlighted by a flashy silver western bridle. Not like any farm boy I’ve ever seen . . . she thought, her whole body feeling strangely tingly, her cheeks definitely going scarlet.

  The boy pulled his horse back to a walk with hardly a raise of his hand. They rode along in silence, the horses’ hooves clopping in unison on their parallel tracks. Greg’s footfalls were muffled on the sunburned grass of Tully’s side, swallowed by the clatter of the grey’s shiny shoes on the bitumen lane.

  Tully snuck a look at the boy through the cover of a stand of eucalypts, running along the front of her property. She peered at him carefully through the smooth trunks of the trees and the lush green leaves, her heart gaining pace . . .

  His eyes found hers and he winked, sending shivers down her spine. Busted! Tully’s eyes shot back to the track, and she narrowed them with concentration, like she’d been looking there the whole time.

  The line of trees cleared and the track swept out in front of them, running down past the entrance to Avalon, across the final furlong to the home turn.

  The boy’s eyes were on her, practically scalding her skin. She tried hard to ignore him, concentrating on every flinch of the powerful horse beneath her. When the boy clicked his horse up into a trot, Tully’s body followed the movement, Greg leaping forward happily. She glanced at the boy, her heart revving in her chest. Can’t let this dude on a stock horse beat us!

  A flare of competitiveness she hadn’t felt since riding with her mum lit within Tully as she clicked Greg up into a canter. The boy grinned and followed suit, the thundering of their race shattered the still rural morning. Tully was mindful not to push Greg too hard, as the footing was hard and uneven and he needed new shoes, but she could practically feel him smiling, pulling hard for his head – raring to go.

  The air blew past her face and howled in her ears as they rounded the far corner and raced down the final stretch. Her body hummed with the pleasure of sweat and freedom and adrenaline, filling her with strength and lifting her up into the vast blue sky – just ahead of the boy on the road.

  Greg pulled for his head just metres from the end of the straight, ready to tip into the home turn . . . Tully’s heart beat huge and numbing pain stabbed in her chest, her limbs filling with a familiar and unwelcome dread.

  Fear.

  She gritted her teeth against it, no, no, NO! Kept her hands moving forward with the stride of her horse… but in an instant her mind was flooded by the devastating images of her mother falling, collapsing on the track, never to get up again. Fear rattled through Tully’s mind like a machine gun, firing possibilities: Greg might slip, we could fall, maybe his injury still isn’t healed?!!

  Maybe it’s not worth it?!

  This is what killed my mum!

  ‘WHOA!’ Tully screamed into the wind, pulling Greg back with all her strength, forfeiting the race. Her heart plummeted with a sickening sense of disappointment; her stomach reeled, bile rising in her throat. She fought to keep hold of the reins as sweat burned her eyes and fresh blisters rose on her hands – she’d forgotten to wear gloves and goggles. Her mother had never lost her nerve, and here Tully was, unable to ride a fast lap around their home exercise track. Shameful.

  The boy looked back and chucked her a smirk, bringing his grey back to an easy canter. Tully shot an outraged glare back at him, trying her best to hide the hurt.

  Hot tears rolled down her cheeks as she wheeled Greg around and headed back towards the entrance of the track. Tully was furious at the boy for tempting her to push herself, furious with herself for letting Greg down, for letting herself down. The Athens women were born to ride – became the best, or died trying. Why am I so weak!?

  She glanced back at the boy, even though her brain was screaming to resist the urge. He winked and raised his chin in a kind of cool nod, before disappearing into the cover of the trees along the front of her neighbour’s place.

  No matter how infuriating he was, with the exception of gorgeous thoroughbreds, Tully had to concede that boy was the hottest thing she’d ever seen. She also had to concede that he rode better than her; that he had beaten her. She wondered who he was, where he was from, then scolded herself for wondering, hitched her leg forward to check the girth, wiped her eyes and clicked Greg up into a trot to head for home. The only thing you need to be thinking about, Tully told herself, is how in the heck you’re gonna grow a pair and get back on track to becoming a jockey.

  ★

  Tully’s blue-checked school tunic rode up her thighs as she pedalled her pushbike down their dirt driveway, headed for the main road to ride the five kilometres down to the bus stop. The sun sizzled on her bare arms, her belly rumbled. They were out of bread and milk and she’d fed their last apple to Greg and her ancient grey Shetland pony, Frangipani. She’d managed to rustle up a few stodgy muesli bars, but knew it was wise to save them for lunch.

  Tully stopped just outside the gate to get her McDonald’s hat out of her backpack, cursing herself for forgetting a cooler ball cap to wear under her pink bike helmet. She hoped no one from school would see her and yell out. Her Macca’s uniform was packed amongst her schoolbooks as she worked m
ost days after school. She noticed the black line of dirt and horsehair under her nails when she reached inside her bag, cringed and kicked herself for forgetting to clean them. She was sure, judging by the crappy way her day was unfolding, the kids at school would notice and call her ‘dirty farm girl’. Again.

  To distract herself, Tully plugged her headphones into her phone and threaded them into her ears, setting it to Taylor Swift’s new CD she’d finally saved enough to download. She cranked it up, singing along to the catchy pop tune as she swung her backpack over her shoulders, stood up on the pedals of her bike and crossed the lane to ride the narrow shoulder to the shelter at the end of the road, where the bus would pick her up and take her into the rural town of Beaudesert, further down the Mount Lindesay Highway.

  Sweat ran down her neck and face, her legs burned from the effort – her muscles already weary from her adventure earlier this morning. A semi-trailer was approaching, so she pulled off into the uneven grass and broken edge of bitumen, lifting her bum above the seat to keep from bouncing right off her bike. The whoosh of air as the huge truck blew past nearly pushed her into the steep ditch. A few utes and cars came by next, most of them moving into the oncoming lane to give her space.

  Tully pedalled hard up the last hill before the bus stop, past the final few driveways, and coasted down the other side, enjoying the view of the brown paddocks and fluorescent green crops flanking this last flat stretch of road before the highway. A huge, sweeping flame tree in brilliant bloom gifted her a bit of shady reprieve, then it was back into the unrelenting Queensland sun. She hurried for the shade of the shelter, making it to the end of the road just as the bus was approaching from the north. Drifted fast down off the road, onto the bumpy track leading around behind the bus shelter and up into a languishing lantana bush. She pushed her bike underneath it, before turning and running to make it on board the bus before the door closed.