Saratoga Sunrise

by Christine Wenger

  "This isn't like you. Not the man I know," said the woman.

  "Just give me a little more time, then you can do what you want." The male voice was deep and rich, and familiar. "But this is important to me. Important to my family."

  "I don't know. I'll think about it," the woman said.

  She saw them in the shadows. He reached for her, as if to embrace her or to get her to listen to him, but the woman stormed away, mumbling to herself, her arms flailing.

  Clara.

  The man hurried off in the opposite direction.

  Jack Summers.

  She froze, shocked by the disturbing scene. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears as she fought back the bile threatening to choke her. Then realization hit her all at once.

  Clara and Jack know each other.

  # # #

  Jack paced in front of the stables, thinking. He still didn't have any information that would help clear his father and it was frustrating him.

  In spite of his best efforts, Sara Peterson didn't tell him anything that he didn't already know, and now Clara Cunningham was ready to tell everyone about his real identity.

  Frowning, he hoped he’d convinced Clara to remain silent and to allow him more time.

  He doubted if she would. Clara made it known that she was a close and loyal friend of Sara Peterson. So time was of the essence. He had to hurry.

  Sara Peterson. Her name was like a whisper on the wind.

  He thought of the deep gash on her leg, the horrible scars. It must have been a horrible accident for such a result. He sighed that such a thing had happened to mar such a lovely woman and how courageous she must have been to suffer through the healing process.

  One thing was for certain, the injury to her body did not damage her spirit. An unbidden feeling of profound admiration for Sara Peterson flowed through him.

  Then outrage overcame him. What idiot was driving the carriage that killed her mother and maimed such a lovely woman?

  "For heaven's sake!" he blurted. The force of his words startled Amberglow and she whickered in annoyance.

  He knew he had upset Sara by inspecting her injury. Even though her eyes had been dry, they were unforgiving.

  He didn't know what he'd done to hurt her.

  But he would make up for it tomorrow night at the ball. He'd ask Sara to dance and wouldn't take no for an answer.

  Surprisingly, he found himself looking forward to holding Sara in his arms again.

  CHAPTER 6

  Porky Wagner, resplendent in plaid pants that didn’t reach his ankles and his lucky polka-dotted shirt, looked every bit the Saratoga gadabout as he waddled from stall-to-stall at the horse stables. Binoculars, hanging from around his neck on a black strap, alternately swung like a pendulum then bounced off his protruding stomach.

  Clutching several scribbled papers in his meaty fist and a well-chewed, unlit cigar between his teeth, he pulled a pencil from behind his ear and shifted the papers in every direction trying to find a clean space on which to write.

  Deep-set, clear blue eyes peered over gold-rimmed spectacles that had slipped down his sunburned nose. He studied Bravo Joe from no more than ten feet away, then lifted his binoculars and studied the horse again.

  "What da' ya' think about that one, Mike?" Porky asked, giving his long-time friend a nudge in the side with his elbow.

  Mike Lasky, as skinny as Porky was not, pulled on his whiskered chin thoughtfully. "Nice lookin', nice legs, nice shiny hair, strong hips and thighs."

  "Dammit, Mike, I'm not talkin' about your lady friend, I'm talking about Bravo Joe."

  They both tugged on their pants together: Porky, to pull his down past his stomach hoping to locate a place where they weren't as tight around the waist, and Mike to pick his up because the cuffs were dragging through the dirt and manure.

  "Who owns him?" Mike asked, looking at his friend.

  Porky leafed through the sheets of paper like he was shuffling cards, finally finding what he wanted. "Montague Fordice."

  "The old man?"

  "Dead. His son owns the horse now."

  Mike held up his hand. "I don't like 'em."

  "Which one?"

  "Both of them."

  "So you won't bet on his horse?"

  "Nope."

  Porky clicked his tongue against his back teeth. "That's ridiculous. That's a good horse there."

  "Bet him if you want, but I won't. Like owner, like horse, I always say. Let's see some more."

  "Seawind's over here. Owned by Bond Peterson."

  "I like Bond. I like that girl of his even more. Where is Sara? She must be around somewhere." Mike turned to look in every direction.

  "She’s a sweet girl. It about broke my heart when I read about her accident in the Albany Times Union. She doesn't talk about it much, but I heard around the track that she almost died."

  Porky sniffed, took out a plain cotton handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose without removing his cigar.

  Mike jumped at the sound. "I know, Pork. I was the one that told you."

  "Oh."

  "Sheesh, are you getting so old that you can't remember anything?"

  "Shh! Here comes Sara!" Porky straightened his striped tie and whipped his misshapen beaver hat off his fairly bald head. He tossed the pencil and his papers into the middle of the bowl of the hat and waited politely.

  "Pork, dammit, don't stand there like a statue. Let's go meet her for goodness sake! Ya' going to make her walk all the way over here?" Mike yelled.

  "I wasn't thinking. Quit yer harpin' at me and let's go greet her." He walked penguin-like away from Mike, who hurried to keep up.

  "Mike...Porky...how wonderful it is to see you both again!" Sara held out her arms wide and gave them both a hug. "It's been so long, but I do so enjoy the letters you write me throughout the year."

  "We like yours, too, sweetie," Porky said as Mike nodded in agreement.

  "Care to sit down on that bale of hay, Miss Sara?" Mike shrugged out of his too-large topcoat, spread it on the hay, and motioned regally for Sara to sit.

  She smiled. "Thank you, Mike."

  Not to be outdone, Porky held her hand to steady her as she sat down on the hay.

  "You both are looking quite dapper!" Sara said. They blushed to the tip of their heads. "I've missed you both."

  "You're a good friend, Sara Peterson," Porky said with reverence.

  "You get more beautiful every year," Mike added. "We heard about you being betrothed. Who's the lucky gent?"

  Sara's high spirits at seeing her friends, slowly dissolved. "It's Montague Fordice. I believe you both know him."

  "Indeed we do," said Mike.

  "That foolish jackass?"

  "Watch your language, Porky."

  "Oh, sorry, Miss Sara. You mean that fish-faced fool Fordice?"

  Mike snickered. "Oh, that was much better, Pork."

  Laughter bubbled up from inside Sara until it had no recourse but to escape. "Oh, thank you so much you two. I needed a good laugh."

  Porky turned the brim of his hat around in his hands, careful not to disturb his papers. "Do you love him, sweetie?"

  "No."

  "Well, then why the hell–oops, sorry–heck...are ya' marrying him?" Porky asked.

  Sara looked down. How could she tell her friends that it was her father's wishes, and that she was going to marry him so that she could have her horse farm? Knowing them, they'd storm over to her father and hound him unmercifully until he changed his mind. But it was her battle to fight. She'd handle her father. . . eventually.

  Sara sighed. "I have my reasons, Porky."

  "Honey, you're too good for that fool. We've known him for years, hell...I mean heck...we've been coming here for years, and I know I speak for Porky here when I say he's no good," Mike said.

  "Oh, he's all right. He's just a little...stuffy," she said.

  "Yeah, I'd like to stuff him all right." Porky plopped his hat back on his head, and Sara chuckled w
hen bits of paper stuck out of the brim and surrounded his face.

  She decided to change the subject. "So who do you like today, gentlemen?"

  "How about giving us a tip, sweetie?"

  She giggled. "Porky, you know I always bet on Peterson horses. My money's on Lucky Clover in the first and Comet in the second." She handed him two dollars. "Will you place my bet for me, as usual?"

  Porky took her money and stuffed it into the pocket of his vest. "Most certainly, sweetie."

  "Would you like to see our horses, gentlemen?" Sara asked. "I know how much you always enjoy a first-hand look."

  The answer was overwhelmingly "Yes!"

  Porky and Mike each took one of her elbows and helped her up from the bale of hay. After thanking them, she locked her arm in theirs, and they proceeded in the direction of the Peterson stables.

  Sara knew that Jack would be at the stables, and her stomach churned, half in eager anticipation, half in dread.

  When they got there, Sara made introductions. She tried to concentrate, but her gaze kept straying to Jack Summers who was brushing Lucky Clover. His muscles were straining his crisp white shirt with every move he made.

  "So, Jack, are Clover and Comet ready to race today?" Bond ran a hand over the glossy neck of Lucky Clover. "These folks might want to place a bet on him."

  "Yes, sir. Toady has been working them out, and they both clocked fine."

  "Good to hear." Bond patted Clover's neck.

  Jack slipped his hand into the currycomb and began brushing Clover's withers. "Any further instructions, Mr. Peterson?"

  "No. Just make sure everything's all right and get them to the post on time."

  "I will," Jack said.

  Bond Peterson took Porky and Mike on a tour of his stables, but Sara remained behind to give her leg a rest. Sitting on the only chair in close proximity, she tried to avoid glancing at Jack Summers.

  # # #

  Jack's gaze met Sara's, but she quickly looked away. What did I do to upset her? It wasn't his fault that she got wet. If she hadn't made such a fuss about him touching her leg, she never would have been dunked. He supposed it wasn't the gentlemanly thing to do, but he couldn't help himself. He was still incensed about the scars she wore, but she was lucky to be alive.

  She was beautiful when she was wet. Hell, she was beautiful when she wasn't wet! Her clothes had clung to her figure in all the right places. There was something about Sara Peterson that made his hands itch to touch her.

  The first day he’d met her, she looked so fragile, yet he sensed an inner strength about her. A man could get lost in her violet eyes and her dewy lips. She tried valiantly to walk normally, but she couldn’t.

  At veterinary school, he studied the bones of animals, humans included. Perhaps he could help her with the right kind of exercise or some kind of alteration to her shoe. Walking was good, and she seemed to do a lot of that, but she might benefit from exercise devoted to specific muscles.

  Lucky Clover snorted as if she had read his thoughts. "You're right, Lucky Clover, what could I possibly do to help her that the best doctors in the country haven't tried?" he mumbled, feeling a sadness creep into his heart.

  He reminded himself that his plan was to use Sara to get information to clear his father. But still, he couldn't help but notice how the morning sun lit up her hair so that it was almost silver in spots, and how her petite figure looked trim in a striped shirtwaist and pale blue skirt. He remembered how her laughter rang out like silver tinkling against the finest crystal, but she wasn't laughing now.

  Sara must have sensed him staring at her for she looked over at him. He smiled boldly. She seemed to forget herself, and began to return his smile, then turned away.

  "Are you upset at something Sara?"

  "No. Not at all."

  Her voice dripped with icy displeasure. He was puzzled. What did he do wrong, other than kiss her?

  But he was only a horse handler, so she thought, and she was a rich heiress. Even though the class system was somewhat forgotten at Saratoga, it still was a matter-of-fact outside of the Springs, and the Petersons would be no exception.

  He vowed to ask Sara again what was bothering her, when not so many people were around. Yes, the ball tonight at the Grand Union would be the perfect time. Of course, she'd be in attendance. All the belles would be there. He'd ask her to dance, then question her. However, he reminded himself to make sure to avoid anyone who might recognize him, or know him, like Clara Cunningham.

  Soon everyone returned from their tour of the stables, and they left in Bond's carriage for the track. Jack stared at the departing carriage wishing his relationship with Sara was back to the delightful way it was when she was sneaking a ride on Seawind and when they were picnicking by the spring.

  # # #

  Sara felt the familiar excitement well up inside her as the horses paraded to the starting line. A small band played what she thought was supposed to be a Sousa march, but it needed a faster beat. She could tell that Lucky Clover didn't like the music at all. Clover shook her head in the direction of the band and let out a mighty snort. Her father chuckled as did Aunt Trixie.

  Toady Evans, their jockey, looked particularly dashing in his new silks made of the Peterson colors, green and blue. "Grass and sky" she remembered her mother saying as she picked the colors many years ago.

  The colors reminded Sara of the sky and the field that she and Jack walked through yesterday when they walked to the spring.

  Why did everything have to remind her of him?

  But maybe Jack and Clara had shared the same walk to the same spring. Maybe they knew each other as children. Sara knew she had to question Clara about Jack as soon as she could and wondered, not for the first time, why Clara didn't tell her that she knew Jack. And what were they fighting about in the shadows of the courtyard?

  Sara pushed these thoughts to the back of her mind so she could concentrate on the present. As she looked around the magnificent grandstand at the assembled crowd, she noticed that there wasn't a chair that wasn't occupied, except perhaps very high up.

  From her position in her father's box, Sara glanced at Monty next to her. His usually pleasant face was somewhat puffy today and his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. He looked dreadful.

  She took out her pink fan from Paris and fanned herself. There was hardly any breeze, and the smell of stale cigar smoke and stale liquor hung heavy around him. He seemed to have tried to mask the smell with an extra amount of hair tonic. The mix was overwhelmingly cloying in the humidity.

  She looked over at her Aunt Trixie whose fan was already moving. "What is that dreadful smell?" her aunt whispered.

  Sara put her finger over her lips and giggled. "Shh! I think it's Montague."

  Her aunt shook her head and rolled her eyes. "For heaven's sake."

  The discharge of the starter's pistol made them all jump. The horses lunged forward. Toady kept Lucky Clover close to the inside. Sara held her breath until the horses lined up. Clover was third in line. She held up her binoculars and could see Toady riding over Clover's head. Sit back a little, Toady. Clover doesn't like it when you hang over him. Toady finally moved back, and Clover moved into second place at the half. Sara clapped. Oh, how she wanted to cheer at the top of her lungs, but she didn't dare. It wasn't ladylike.

  Sara held her breath again. It was the home stretch. Clover was running neck-to-neck with Lady Ann, a fine horse, but she knew Clover could beat him. She let out her breath in a rush and screamed, "Run Clover! Run! You can do it!"

  Montague looked down at her as if she'd just lost her mind. She ignored him and grabbed Aunt Trixie's hand and squeezed it until the race was over.

  Lucky Clover had won by a nose over Lady Ann!

  "That was a wonderful race if I say so myself. I hope you had your money on Lucky Clover, Monty. She'll bring a good pot. Oh, of course you bet on her." Bond shook Montague's hand, then hugged Sara and Trixie.

  Her father looked away to accep
t other congratulations from those around him before he could see the look on Monty's face, but Sara saw it. She knew immediately that Monty had not put his money on Lucky Clover, and he had lost. Judging by his scowl, he’d lost big.

  Bond turned toward them and grinned. "Will you join me in the winner's circle, ladies?"

  Sara didn't want to walk down the many steep stairs to the winner's circle. She knew it would be a difficult descent and an awkward return to her seat. Thousands of eyes would be watching her. "Aunt Trixie, please go with Daddy."

  Her aunt opened her mouth to protest, but Sara motioned at the stairs. Her aunt winked at her, then turned to Bond. "Let's leave the lovebirds alone for a few minutes, Bond. I'll go with you."

  Her father held out his hand, and Sara noticed the blush that suddenly colored Aunt Trixie’s cheeks. They went down the stairs to the winner's circle as the spectators applauded.

  The second they left their box, so did Monty. He mumbled something about getting something to drink and left her alone. He didn’t even ask her if she wanted something. She didn't care. It was better than trying to think of something to say to him.

  Her heart fluttered when she saw Jack leading Lucky Clover to the winner's circle. He never wore a hat, but today he did. The sleeves of his white cotton shirt were rolled up, giving a glimpse of tanned arms. He wore fawn-colored trousers tucked into high black boots. He looked wonderfully handsome.

  His eyes scanned the crowd. Was he looking for her?

  Jack spotted her, smiled and waved. Before she could stop herself, she grinned and waved back. Then she remembered the conversation she'd overheard between him and Clara, and her heart ached.

  "Why Sara Peterson, you couldn't possibly be waving to that groom. She just couldn’t be. What do you think, Leanne?

  Sara's stomach clutched at the shrill voice.

  "Heavens, Suzette, our Sara wouldn't be flirting with a groom when she is betrothed. You simply must be mistaken."

  "Leanne, I saw it with my own eyes. Just as Mr. Fordice left the box, she had her eyes on another man–that groom down there. The one to whom she just waved."